


The Canticles of The Champion of Kirkwall

by AmaranthBlacktree



Series: The Dragon Age Gospels [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age 2, Dragon Age II
Genre: .....and Hawke...., Angst, But Anders tho, Dark, Drugged Rape, Drugged Sex, Fenris/Hawke - Freeform, Fenris/Male Hawke - Freeform, Gaslighting, Graphic Rape, Graphic and explicit depictions of murdering children, Heavy Angst, I have Fenris feels, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mental Illness, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Not Beta Read, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Song fic, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, This took on a life of it's own holy crap, Unfaithfulness...kinda...I mean I suppose it is....we'll see, Unreliable Narrator, and people, angst like whoa, drugged state, fenhawke - Freeform, semi graphic depictions of rape, survivor's guilt, what a mess, ye be warned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-08-23 18:24:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 24
Words: 73,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8338033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmaranthBlacktree/pseuds/AmaranthBlacktree
Summary: Garrett and Fenris are in an established relationship. But when Garrett begins to talk of another in his sleep it's up to Fenris to figure out whether or not he should fight for what he wants, needs, and loves. Or to find another road to happiness. Inspiration for this fic was based on the song Jolene sang by Pentatonix and Dolly Parton.





	1. Murmurs in the Dark

                The very walls of the estate shook as the grumblings of the storm over Kirkwall thundered and grew. The rain pelted across the floor to ceiling windows, and lighting arched violently. The light dimly illuminated the room before the darkness once again swallowed it up. He lay in bed, snug and warm, blankets pulled to his chin. Garrett a warm wall of flesh to his back, heavy arm slung low over his hip, curled possessively against his love. Wuffs of warm breath curled tantalizingly against his neck as The Champion of Kirkwall slept.

                It wasn’t the storm that was keeping him awake at such a late hour, if anything it would have lulled him to sleep. His eyes closed as a particularly bright flash split the sky, waiting for the deep rumblings of thunder to follow.  He was home, safe, in a place where he was loved. Sleep shouldn’t be evading his as doggedly as it was. And yet, here he was.

                It had started months prior, right after his love had stormed the Palace and stood toe to toe with the Arishok, and  _won._  Saving Kirkwall from the Wrath of the Qunari and being submitted forcibly to the Qun. Hawke had stood tall over the body of the massive warrior, wounded gravely and turned to the Nobles, they of whom had bent the knee and proclaimed him as their Champion. Knight-Commander Meredith sweeping into the throne room, mere seconds later, and watched as an Apostate was applauded and venerated as the Savior. Fenris had watched her carefully cataloguing each muscle tick, watchful eyes studying her fury and disgust in every movement, waiting for her to try and condemn Garrett to a life in the Gallows. But she had only watched as Hawke had sauntered out, belying his deep wounds. Anders had met him outside in the courtyard quickly, not wishing to draw attention to himself, helping Hawke to his clinic to heal him out of sight of the Knight-Commander and the court of Kirkwall.

                Fenris, had been roped into helping to dispose of bodies by Varric. The dwarf claiming that Anders and Hawke would be done shortly and they could all meet at the Hanged Man in celebration. He had clamped his mouth shut, teeth grinding on the acerbic comments he wished to make about the Apostate Healer looking after Hawke on his own. Garrett he trusted implicitly, the other Mage…not so much. It was no secret that Anders was half in love with Hawke, further more making no effort to staunch or hide his flirtations.

                Even now, his jaw clenched, hands curling in the blankets. His eyes closed slowly again, ears twitching with the sounds of the storm. Memories continued to whir in his mind’s eye. They had met at the Hanged Man, Hawke and the Healer laughing at some shared joke as the made their way into Varric’s suite. The Champion was completely at ease as Anders’ hands had run over his shoulder as they took their seats. Garrett in the unquestioned position at the head of the table, the others falling into their seats. Fenris on his right, a large hand lay upon his knee as Fenris leaned instinctively closer to his lover. His eyebrows rose as instead of Varric, the Mage Healer had claimed the left hand seat. He grumbled in his chest, silencing it when Hawke had looked at him in question. A sharp shake of his head had dispersed the moment and the cards were dealt.

                As the night wore on, Fenris became more and more aware of Anders’ lingering heated gazes on Hawke. Who, in his usual way, seemingly was either unaware or misinterpreting it. His hand ached for the pommel of his great sword. That the Mage would step up his attentions to full out mooning set his teeth on edge. Worse, Hawke had been reaching out to the Mage much more than was strictly necessary in his honest opinion. Amused glances here, or hand on a shoulder there. And the Mage had lapped it all up, encouraging him even as he continued to drink. The breaking point had come when someone had started up a song and Anders’ had pulled him in to dance, at that Fenris had stood and collected his sword from its customary corner and strapping it to his back, chest burning with rage. Heart pounding with fury and hurt, the last look that he had thrown the room as the door shut behind him: Anders’ pulling Hawke’s face down and kissing him soundly.

                He had dallied on the steps outside the Tavern. Anger pressing at all sides of him, warring between heading back to his dilapidated mansion for the night, or heading back into the Tavern and dragging the Mage Healer into the streets and venting his rage on him.

                In the end he did neither and walked slowly to the Amell Estate, or was that Hawke Estate. Bodahn had met him in the Foyer, and had informed his that the Master of the House had yet to come home. Waving off his offers of refreshment, he climbed the staircase and made his way into the master suite. The massive mahogany bed sprawled before him and he wearily began the mundane chore of unstrapping his sword and divesting his armor. A small pile of metal was left to the floor as he sank heavily onto the bed, he’d clean it later. Once he could think clearly. The day’s events caught up with him as he sat, and he obliged his weary body and lay flat. Leaden lids fell over his eyes and he slipped off to sleep.

                Only to be awoken by the stumbling footsteps of two people. His ears perked as he heard low whispers, the low thunder of Hawke’s voice and…

                “ _Shhhhh!”_ An ironically loud shushing noise, “ _You’ll wake him!”_

                His body went ridged. Anders was here, with Hawke. In their bedroom. The fury that had tapered off while he slept came rushing back, and it was all he could do to lay there and just  _listen_. The rustling of cloth, more disjointed murmuring, and the thunk on floor echoing loudly as Hawke’s boots dropped off one by one. Muffled laughter, and then finally…

                “ _Go to sleep, Maker you’re handsy when you’re drunk.”_  The irritating rasp of the Mages voice, and Fenris tensed as Garrett fell against his side, the blankets lifting and covering half his face for a second before they were moved down slightly.

 _“Good night Garrett,”_ The whispered goodbye making him flinch, eyes squeezing tight against the flood of anger that seared through him. Garrett shuffled at his back, getting comfortable in the plush bed. Arm snaking out and pulling him flush against his chest, Fenris grumbled in displeasure as the stench of questionable drink and the lingering smell of the Hanged Man enveloped him. Hawke snuffled against his neck before the even breaths of his sleep blew across the hair of his nape. He eyes stung with the anger of what had transpired hit him again, and he scrubbed his hands down his face resolutely pushing the thoughts from his head and trying valiantly to fall back to sleep.

                It felt like mere minutes later when he was woken yet again, Garrett moving against his back. Movement jostling him as the mountain of a man moved. His hips pressed urgently against the swell of his arse. Hot and hard, he muffled his groan as arousal burned through him. This, this is what he had expected when they had gotten home. The excitement of the day should have found them together in this room far from the stinking halls of the Tavern as they released the relief and lingering excitement from the encounter with the Arishok. His hips pushed back into Hawke as he moved again, thick arms wrapping tightly around his waist. Mouth finding the vulnerable crease of his neck, breath hot and damp against his skin.

                Hawke was mumbling sweet words against his flesh and he bit his lip to keep himself quiet not wanting to call the attention of the other residents of the house.  They moved urgently, and Fenris panted into the pillow, lyrium lines flaring with the rise and fall of his arousal. Garrett kissed the back of his neck and began thrusting ever more frantically in between his thighs. Breathy sighs and fervent prayers to the Maker, he’d nearly hit his crest when he heard Hawke low groan:

                “ _Anders...”_

                He froze, the fire of his arousal quickly extinguished in the echo of that name. His insides felt as if he’d been hit by Winter’s Grasp. Heart stuttering and stalling in a pain that was  _too much_  to name, and fury that rose right behind it, scorching the frozen crystalline pieces of his soul.

                Garrett moaned as he finished, wetness spreading between them. Spend coating the insides of his thighs, as he fought not to shove Hawke away. Hawke who loved him, Hawke who had fought to get beneath his prickly exterior. Hawke who was once again asleep, breaths deep and even as if he’d never awoken. And perhaps he hadn’t, perhaps he had no idea the anguish his dreams had caused. Fenris’ tongue felt thick in his mouth, as his airway asphyxiated. He couldn’t breathe. Agony and heartbreak shook through him, unbeknownst to his slumbering bedmate.

                It felt like his heart had shattered with two syllables, sent skittering away, he felt numb from head to toe.

                In the morning he would be woken by a triumphant and jubilant Hawke who would kiss him soundly and loudly declare his love. And in his silence, it was taken as confirmation that all was well. And he chose to steady on, regardless of the pain that burrowed itself into his heart.

 

                It happened ever more frequently as the days, weeks and then months wore on. It had gotten worse, what had started out as just the whispering of a name was now complete sentences and parts of conversations. Fenris had watched Hawke as it happened. Always while he was asleep, and always after Anders and he had spent time together, either in the Apostate's clinic or on one of the many jobs that Garrett took them on. Each time was a tight fist on his heart, all the more reason that he should get up and march out. He was better than this, better than a stray dog begging at a table for affection and scraps. But…the way Hawke smiled at him and sending his heart skipping in his chest, the way that he would reach for him at Wicked Grace nights, the way he said his  _name_  in that low, rough way of his. The feel of his arms around him, comforting and loving and secure.

                He loved Hawke. Loved Him. And that is what kept him from running when before he would have hightailed it as soon as he could.

 

                And that’s what had led him here, on this night. With a tempest brewing inside him, just as much as it was brewing outside. Hawke was talking again.

                Anders’ was… not in any way palatable to his tastes. But in a strictly aesthetic view, he could grudgingly see what Hawke saw in the Mage. Fair brown hair with a tint of burnished auburn, honey eyes that darkened with his anger and glowed while he laughed at Hawke’s and Varric’s antics, his thin lanky frame that hinted at the strength hidden under his overly large feathered robes. He snorted in his reverie, and stared back outside the window. The storm seemed to be dispersing, the rays of the dawn breaking through the greyed and angry clouds that blanketed Kirkwall.

                Behind him, Hawke settled and his words tapered off. Fenris sighed and burrowed his face into the pillow, determined to try to get at least some sleep this night. Though he was coming to the end of his ability to pretend, and soon the cracks in his façade would become too large to keep the storm that was raging inside, hidden.

 


	2. Solace in Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I struggle as Fenris does, to put my words into sentences. I see it so clearly in my head...and yet...I will struggle to write this I see but I will prevail.
> 
> I adore Sebastian's armor...it's pretty. In all fairness though...I like everyone's clothes

                 The dawn rose with the clouds of the night before fading and a heat that was crippling and oppressive. Even in the cool expanse of the Estate he could feel the tendrils of humidity cloying and despotic, lying heavily upon his skin. Agitated and morose he rose silently. Gently pulling himself from Hawke’s embrace as the bear of a man slumbered on. Unaware of the turmoil that was roiling in his Elven lover.

                 His morning ablutions were quickly finished, dressing in his armor and strapping his sword to his back he moved to the kitchen. Orana was moving from efficiently in the large room, tantalizing smells wafting from the oven as she worked. His stomach growled but he was in no mood to break his fast with Hawke. Instead he grabbed a hunk of bread and carved a slice of cheese from the round on the table and left, waving Orana a farewell. The sun was barely cresting over the tops of the tall buildings of Hightown as he made his way through the city. He had no particular destination, only a desire to move and rid himself of his thoughts.

                His feet carried him through sleepy Kirkwall only just now beginning to rouse and begin their day. He passed the marketplace, merchants yawning and starting to pull the tarps from their stalls and arranging their wares.  The sun steadily rose and the humidity, if anything, seemed only to thicken. His undershirt stuck to him uncomfortably and he sighed in disgust. He had no actual destination and he tossed about for somewhere to go. He didn’t want to return to Hawke’s Estate. He needed time to think, and to gather his thoughts. The rise of the Chantry tower’s shadow enveloped him as he continued. He looked up to it, and scowled slightly. If anything it was somewhat a neutral place, out of the sun and somewhere he could sort through his feelings. He turned and strode back the way he came, skirting the courtyard that led to Hawke, up the steps to the imposing building and into the cool quiet of the Sanctuary.

                It smelt heavily of incense and his nose itched with the heavy scent. The pews were lined up and had few people in them, he chose one closer to the back and sat heavily. Looking around him he took in the grand expanse of the Chantry, the massive statue of Andraste stared down upon him. He felt small in her gaze and lowered his eyes to the foor.

                His shoulders sagged as he pulled his convoluted thoughts to the forefront. Hawke. Anders. A tangled web of what he wanted, the pain he felt during Hawke’s nightly forays into the Fade and the subsequent conversations he seemed to have with said Mage, and how he wanted to proceed with the knowledge he had. He clung tightly to the feeling of truth that shone through whenever Hawke pulled him close and whispered words of love. He wanted desperately to trust in it. And yet…yet the pain that lanced his heart when Hawke held him in the night and moaned another’s name. It hurt dearly.

                Hawke was everything to him. Someone who had bothered to look closer at him, and deem him worthy of attention regardless of his prickly nature. Who claimed to love him with his flaws, not in spite of them. A lifeline thrown to a man who would have drowned far sooner that even he had realized. He was not equipped to deal with life outside of Tevinter, outside slavery. Conditioned and beaten down, dependent upon Danarius for everything. The Fog Warriors had started to teach him to live outside that influence, but it had been Hawke who had solidified his confidence and ability.

                He leaned further back into the heavy, solid wood of the pew and pondered. Anders. The man infuriated him. A Mage that fought the yoke of the Chantry Law. A Healer of the people. He was multifaceted in his personality, both selfless and giving. Kind to the downtrodden, and resolute in his opinion of Freedom for Mages. The latter ideal set his teeth on edge. He was a product of the worst of what Magic had to offer, and his agony and past made it hard to find, let alone want, any comradery with the man. Not to mention the Spirit Healer had invited a Fade creature into himself, and proclaimed that the thing that shared his soul was anything other than an Abomination. That irked him more than anything.

                In his opinion Hawke was everything a Mage should aspire to be. A Champion of the People. He also gave without question, helping wherever he went. People leaned on him in times of crisis, and he shouldered their burdens. Asking for nothing in return. It frustrated him that the qualities he could see in Hawke also rang true in Anders. Perhaps he could see why Hawke was so enraptured of him.

                He bit his lip, mind churning. He was getting nowhere as to a solution. He was abjectly against conceding defeat to the Spirit Healer. Hawke was his, but yet he couldn’t ask Hawke to give up on his relationship with Anders. He couldn’t bear to cause a hurt to the man who had given him so much. His fingers tightened on the lip of the pews seat. Gauntlet tips carving into the grain of the wood. He wanted to scream with the uncertainty, cry with the pain losing Hawke to Anders would bring. His eyes scrunched tight as he fought off the emotions clouding his mind.

                 “Heavy thoughts you’re having, if your expression is anything to go by.” A soft rolling voice said, too close to comfort. His eyes opened to find Sebastian hovering in the aisle next to the pew he had chosen. Pure ivory-colored armor glimmering dimly in the half light of the Sanctuary, a small half smile gracing his lips as he leaned over the arm rest of the pew in front of Fenris.

Schooling his expression quickly Fenris cocked his head slightly and grumbled, “If that is what you saw, why then, would you scatter them with interruption?” The comment was off his tongue before he could rein it in and he winced at the acidity intoned in his voice.

                “I was merely commenting on it, mayhap in the chance that I could ease your burden a little Fenris. As a friend.” The last comment was tacked on hastily as Fenris arched an eyebrow at him. “Such heavy thoughts are often appeased when a second voice is there to offer clarity.” Sebastian’s face was open and the words spoken in earnest. The elf sighed and scooched down the pew a little, grudgingly allowing the Prince to sit beside him.

                “I have doubts that you might find a solution to this, and if you reference the Maker as a one-“ He growled lowly, Sebastian’s hands raised in a peace offering and he sat lightly beside him. His hands clasped on his lap and he waited for Fenris to continue.

                “It is hard to…” He sighed trying desperately to find a way to word his problems delicately. He didn’t wish to air his romantic problems so freely. “I find myself in a difficult position. One that I cannot fathom how to handle.” He peered at the Brother as if daring him to make a speech of how one must trust in the Maker to handle all ills. When none was forthcoming he started again.

                “Hawke and Anders having been spending more time together, as such it has begun to manifest in our time at home. It pains me to say that I am losing ground to the Apostate. And it angers me because Hawke…” He barely kept himself from saying _Mine_. His jaw clenched shut, tight enough that he feared any tighter and his teeth might crack. He looked to Sebastian, unwilling to divulge much more.

                Sebastian’s eyebrows had furrowed as he tried measure Fenris’ words. He knew the man that Hawke was, and it surprised him that this was what was troubling the elf. Hawke was generous in his affection for the prickly Tevinter, he made no secret of his love for him. And yet, he could see how the burgeoning friendship with Anders could be troubling Fenris. He’d been present when Anders had goaded Hawke into a dance and subsequent kiss shortly thereafter. He bowed his head slightly, trying to find a way to help Fenris solve his problem without risking his ire.

                “Fenris,” He started, voice contemplative, “Have you talked to Hawke? About how much this is troubling you?”

                Fenris snorted indelicately, body coiling tightly with derision and anger. “And what should I say to him? Hawke, you and I must have words. You calling out the Apostate’s name while we are impassioned and as you sleep have been keeping me lying awake at night?” His voice was controlled and even, but each word was clipped and laced with anger. The man beside him straightened in surprise at his words and he turned his head away, unable to school his features. “He speaks of him, nightly. It was just his name at first. Now he has full conversations. And I am at a loss as to what I do. He says he loves me, but he calls out for another.” His shoulders hunched in, arms wrapping around his middle.

                “Fenris…” Sebastian began but Fenris couldn’t stop now that the dam had opened.

                “I love him. But this pain, the hurt I feel as he calls for Anders…I can’t do it. But yet, neither can I let him go. It would destroy me to leave him. How do I settle this, stay for a man I love but am unsure if I can have, or let him go?” He turned back to Sebastian, eyes glittering with tears unshed. His frame trembled with rage and hurt. His head dropped again, chin resting against his chest as he fought to keep his breathing even. His lyrium lines pulsed with every breath he took as he struggled to keep the war inside him contained. Sebastian had just opened his mouth to respond as the doors to the Chantry slammed open. They turned and rose to their feet, Fenris’ hand reaching for his sword.

                The bright light of Kirkwall’s early morning streamed in gleaming off the polished marble flooring and the ivory of Sebastian’s armor. The Champion of Kirkwall strode in, large legs eating up the distance from the Vestibule into the Sanctuary. Fenris looked beyond him and stiffened as he watched Anders in his flowing robes sweep in, Varric trotting up behind him. His face tightened as he took in Hawke who was grinning his ‘I have a very bad idea’ kind of way. Sebastian was eyeing him as he took in Garrett, lowering his hand from his weapon, lyrium glow fading.

                “Fenris!” Hawke cried in that booming voice of his. Arms coming up to sweep the elf off his feet in a tight hug. “We have a job lined up and you’re just the man I was looking for. Didn’t think I’d find you here, but we’ve found you now. You willing to come along?” He beamed down into Fenris’ face encouragingly. The Tevinter sighed and nodded in a put upon kind of way. Hawke waved jovially back at Sebastian as he tugged Fenris behind him, hand grasping his and blabbering away about this new job he’d accepted.

                “Fenris, when you return. A word if you please?” Sebastian called after them, and Fenris nodded his head as the doors swung closed behind him.


	3. The Wounded Coast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke's jobs are deadly, and I can't fathom just how much these people respect him to continue walking into booby-trapped, certain-death areas....I mean really...

                There was always trouble on the Wounded Coast, be it bandits, Mages (particularly of the Blood kind) or Tal-Vashoth. He grit his teeth as he parried a blade aiming for his head, and pushed back with his shoulder, knocking his assailant off-balance. He swung his sword and grinned ferociously as a wave of blood and gore exploded from the man. He scowled as it clung to his body, viscera splattering his face and hair. He shook his head trying to get it free. He paid for his lapse of awareness as a blade bit into his shoulder from behind. He howled from the pain of it, lyrium blindingly bright as he half turned and buried his fist into his attacker’s chest. His gauntleted hand found the heart and he phased quickly and crushed the beating organ and ripped it from its place. The man’s face contorted in pain and blood gurgled wetly from his mouth. He dropped like a stone and Fenris stepped lightly over his body and looked around as the battle raged on, looking to see where he was most needed.

                Hawke and Anders stood back to back in the midst of a circle of bandits. Elemental Magic flaring as they cast. They were in tune as they manipulated their staffs, fireballs from Anders scorching both ground and flesh, while lightning crackled around Hawke. They had too many on them and he strode quickly into the fray, alternating use of his lyrium and mighty blows from his sword. Varric stood above them on a cliff face, Bianca thrumming in time to his humming. Bolts dispatching men as he circled as he could.

                He could hear Varric’s taunting remarks and Hawke’s humorous replies, each calling out numbers of kills every time they managed to fell an enemy. Anders on the other hand was more focused on the job at hand, mana spent on flinging fireballs well away from comrades and the occasional healing spell. He grimaced as he felt the wave of healing magic mend the wound in his shoulder, but bit his tongue against the angry retort that threatened to pass his lips. He concentrated his rage on a particularly large host of Bandits that had come charging down the path. Phasing and moving astonishingly fast he bowled them over and raised his sword, hacking through limbs and torso, blood washing up to his elbows and drenching the rest of him. When he was sure they were obliterated he stilled and looked up to his comrades. They had finished picking off the last of the horde in the clearing and were now rifling through bodies, looting coin and examining resalable equipment. He sucked in breath, heart beating from exertion and slowly raised his sword and put it to his back strapping it in place. He looked down as the bodies he had massacred and with a grimace began rifling through the belongings as well.  

                Chests were poked through, sacks upturned and examined. The findings they were keeping put in a small pile for them to bag later. They moved quickly and finally put all the corpses into a pile, a small flare of Fire engulfed the bodies and the stench of burning flesh filled the ocean air. Fenris busied himself next to Varric, carefully bagging their treasures into sacks to be carried back to Kirkwall and hawked in the Market in exchange for useful items they couldn’t find or make themselves.

                Anders and Hawke were deep in conversation over their remaining supplies. They were running dangerously low on Lyrium and had completely depleted their stock of healing potions. Anders dug through his belt purses cursing as a handful of broken vials and sopping bandages were pulled from it.

                “They must have broken when they knocked me on my arse. Shit. We’re a half day’s walk from Kirkwall and we have no healing supplies.” He groaned, his head bowing as he continued to dig through his packs. “Even the poultices are ruined Hawke. They sopped up the potions as well as blood, ruined.”

                Hawke smiled evenly, laughingly nudging the Healer’s shoulder, “Calm down Anders. We’ll make it back just fine. We’ve cleared out this batch; we just make it back to Kirkwall and restock. And perhaps get you a better potions belt or something.” Heavy hands pulling on the Mage’s shoulder, moving him forward and backward slightly on his feet.

                “You make it sound like we’re in a field of flowers or something, like making it back to Kirkwall without running into more trouble is a skip through a garden.” The Mage grumbled as he was shaken once again, but his expression brightened as he looked back up at Hawke.

                “Sorry to break up the party Sparklefingers, but I hate to break it to you. We’re going nowhere just yet.” Varric said lightly, thumb jabbing over his shoulder at the sun that was just beginning to dip below the horizon. “We best set up camp while we have the light.” 

                They had spent most of the afternoon fighting off hordes of Bandits, hungry work on a good day, and were tired. Losing the light as well as their exhaustion made for a dangerous trip home. Hawke nodded and pulled back from Anders and began rifling through their gear once again. Two small pup tents were pulled out and one was handed to Anders, the other to Fenris. They diligently began setting them up as Varric wandered outside the camp Bianca cocked and ready to hunt up something for them to supplement the rations they had brought with them. Hawke scoured the coastline of the clearing for drift wood, and with some Force Magics managed to fell a small tree which he built into a campfire.  Flames dancing cheerily from his hands to the dry brittle wood, snaps of flame crackling as the wood wept saps into the licking tendrils. The tents were set as Varric came staggering back into the clearing, loaded down with a few fennec foxes and the odd rabbit. Fenris turned to help his skin and gut the creatures, face contorting with disgust as the job pulled at his skin that was still streaked with gore and the butchered remains of their enemies. He made quick work of his small pile and handed the meat over to Hawke to roast, the man’s hands lingering on his own. He smiled openly up at Fenris, and his heart lurched in his chest.

                Pulling his hands from the other’s touch he moved to the beach and began stripping off his clothing. When he had naught but his breeches on he waded into the shallows and dipped his hands into the salt water. Moving further still he dunked his head, groaning as blood and innards ran down his hair into his face and finally into the water. He scrubbed harshly at his skin, dutifully trying to erase all evidence of the afternoon’s violence from his flesh. Satisfied that he at least was clean he moved to the beach and began soaking his armor and clothing, smearing the vestiges of gore from his attire. Sopping from his ministrations he made his way back to the fire and placed his clothing close to the fire to dry. Hawke’s gaze drew his own and he watched as the man fumbled with a plate, eyes devouring his naked flesh. A half smirk graced his lips as he accepted the plate from his lover before taking his place next to him and looking to the food. Roasted meat, hard tack bread for travel and a couple green leafy bits, and to the side of it. His eyes widened as he took in the bright white flesh, sliced neatly for his consumption. An apple. He looked to Hawke and dipped his head, showing without words his appreciation.

                He began to attack the food with relish, steadfastly ignoring the apple. He’d savor the treat when the rest of his meal was finished. He looked up as the feeling of being watched settled over him, and he looked up in time to see Anders’ tight face looking between him and Hawke. He scowled over his plate at the Mage, and seeing that he’d been caught staring Anders went back to inhaling his own food. Varric and Hawke unaware of the brewing conflict bantered lightly between themselves. Both about the mission, and how to divvy the spoils. Fenris had just gotten back into eating his food when a heavy hand landed on his knee and he looked up, Hawke settled against his side. Hand laying possessively on his knee, Fenris hummed around a bite of roast leaning back against him. He finished his meal quickly and gathered the apple pieces greedily counting them before he took a bite of the first. Sugary sweet and crisp the flavor rolled over his tongue and he groaned at the taste.

                He tried valiantly to keep from stuffing the slices in his mouth all at once, choosing to savor what he had in hand. A wuff of breath through his hair caught his attention and he dragged his eyes from his apple to find Hawke staring at him with affection. He tried to smile at him but his cheeks bulged with his mouthful of apple and juice dribbled from his lips as they cracked. Garrett snorted in laughter and pulled something from his pocket, another ruby red shiny apple. Fenris’ eyes grew large and he placed his remaining apple slices in one hand and reached for the new offering. Hawke laughed as he struggled for the apple, pressing a kiss to his cheek before finally allowing his hand to close around the luscious treat.

                “Take it easy there, you’ll choke Fenris.” He said against his hair, Fenris wiggled his shoulders in deference and continued to chew the mouthful he had. A snort of derision caught his attention and he watched as Anders’ stood and grabbed his staff, swiping crumbs and detritus from the front of his robes.

                “I’ll take first watch, the domesticity is going to rot my teeth.” He grumbled. Fenris snarled internally, unable to do so with his mouth stuffed as it was. Balancing the apple on his knee carefully he shot a brief insult at the Mage’s retreating back with his hands before reverently picking up the apple once more. Varric roared with laughter from where he sat fiddling with Bianca, Hawke merely chuckled and pulled Fenris closer. Slowly but surely he ate through the slices and he dithered with the decision to eat the next apple now, or to save his treat for breaking his fast in the morning. Eyeing it he abstained from consuming it. He’d had some already; he could save this for breakfast. His hands were sticky and he cleaned them carefully, licking the juices and sugar trails from his fingers. Beside him Hawke shifted and groaned under his breath, he glanced at him and nearly recoiled from the gaze he found himself entrapped in.

                Standing quickly he pulled Fenris to his feet as well, bidding the grinning Dwarf good night and all but dragged Fenris to their tent, Varric’s laughter echoing in the clearing behind them. He watched as Hawke bent low and he was pulled in among their blankets and pillows, his heart beat fast as he took in Garrett shucking his shirt. Despite all the heartache he’d been having, there was no denying this man. Arousal burned low in his belly as he watched his lover undress, hand moving to carefully place his apple out of harm’s way. Laughter echoed the small tent at his actions, and Fenris flipped over and watched as Hawke gently lay himself down beside him. Mouth moving at his cheek, breathing deeply of his scent and hands carding carefully through his hair. Fenris reached for him, and a large hand gripped his wrist as his fingers were brought up to a mustachioed mouth and a deft tongue swept out curling around fingers still coated with the juice of the apple.

                He groaned at the contact and slid another into the wet heat, face moving forward to snuffle at the base of Hawke’s neck, mouth attaching delicately onto his skin.  The hand dropped from his wrist and instead ventured to his breeches, still damp from his bath in the ocean. They quickly pushed them down to his knees, his legs tangling briefly with them before he was able to kick them off. His body burned as Hawke deftly manipulated him, gasping against the bearded face, teeth worrying at Garrett’s lips.

                He was always so careful with Fenris, handling him like one of Varric’s combustion grenades. As if he’d fall to pieces if delicate care was not taken. The elf grinned at his musings, combust indeed. He was liable to explode if Hawke didn’t attend to him and quit fooling around. He gripped at Garrett’s head, and pulled him from his ministrations.

                “Amatus,” he growled lowly, watching as Hawke shuddered at his tone, “I’m ready, please.” The Mage nodded minutely in his grasp and Fenris moaned into his mouth as he felt them join. It was impossible to describe the feelings he felt when he was with Hawke in these moments. Words were so imprecise, it frustrated him. Shivers wracked his body, and he clutched the warm heat of Garrett to him. Breathy whispers and sighs, warm breath rolling over his face as he stared into his love’s eyes, words wouldn’t come and it was all he could do to lay his soul bare in his face. From Hawke’s expression alone, he felt that he understood what Fenris wished to express. Their movements became hurried and it was all Fenris could do to keep his errant keening to himself. Varric was still present outside and just beyond the camp, Anders. He had no wish for ribald ribbing from them come the morning.

                He could feel his crest upon him and knew that Hawke was close himself. Wrapping limbs around him, to the point that he could no longer find where he began and Hawke ended. Mashing their lips to each other he panted into their shared breath and watched as both Hawke’s Magic and his Lyrium glowed as they drew closer to their climaxes. With a sudden hard jolt he was lost in the tempest and he bit down on Hawke’s shoulder to still his cries, his body pulling Hawke’s release from him. The night was not cold, but against his fevered flesh he felt chilled. Dazed he patted down for the blanket and pulled it up over them, Garrett who had collapsed upon him at the end snuggled ever more firmly into his side and mouthed at his bared neck and shoulders. A hand dragging through his hair once more finally pulled him under and into sleep.

 

                Rustling noises woke him, and he opened his eyes to see Hawke moving against his side. Eyes closed and face open and relaxed. Fenris shut his eyes tightly, and curled into Hawke's side. He clutched at the blankets and he tried to keep his breathing even and relaxed. Pinpricks of tears burned at his eyes as he waited for the inevitable, shame at his anger in this burning just as harshly. Regardless of their passions just hours before, it always came and it was always the same. His breath hitched as he warred to keep the emotional barrage behind the dam of his façade. He heard Hawke snuffle in his hair and sigh…

 

                _“Anders…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An outlet for feeeeeeeeelings....try not to hate me too much please...
> 
> This one flew off my fingers I'm pleased to report. :D


	4. Recompense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've been on a song collecting mission, to help me attune the feelings I want to attach to my writing...blah...I don't think it worked.

          Giving up on being able to rest any longer, he was up and dressing quickly. Sliding his breeches up his legs after taking a moment to damp a towel and wipe away the aftermaths. He strode from the tent and made his way to the dying flames, and picked up his armor. It had dried completely in the few hours he’d been able to rest. He scowled at the remnants of salt stains and sighed at the thought of having to scour the armor when they arrived at home to rid it of the briny crust.

          Grabbing a small pouch of his items he cinched his belt and buckles tightly and taking his sword in hand. Fenris slowly made his way to the hilltop, finding to his surprise that Anders was still on watch. He was sure that Varric would have relieved him after taking his own rest. Clucking his tongue to alert the Mage to his arrival he waved at him shortly. Flares of anger licking at his insides as just the sight of the Healer brought forth the painful remembrance of Anders’ name on Hawke’s lips. Thankfully the Mage looked too exhausted to say much, face drawn and eyes bleary. He trudged back to the campsite down below and entered the tent Varric and he were to share. It shamed him greatly to watch as carefully as he did, to be sure that Anders’ did not enter Hawke’s tent.

          Scowling to himself he sat on the log that the Mage had found to perch on and pulled his whetstone from the pouch, drawing forth his blade and finding his rhythm in sharpening it. Head stuffed full, and heart heavy.

          The dawn came far too soon for Fenris. His head still felt full of cotton, and he was not anxious to face Hawke or Anders after the events of the night before. However he could no more stop the rising of the sun than he could the stirring of his companions. Hawke emerged from the tents first, great hands scrubbing at his eyes and stretching with a mighty groan. Surprising considering the man’s penchant for lounging and sleeping the morning away. Varric was next, and finally Anders’. Fenris rolled his eyes as the Mage greeted Garrett jovially and dug through their gear to prepare breakfast. Snarling under his breath Fenris stood and stalked back to the camp.

          Garrett looked up from where he was talking idly with Anders, face breaking into a grin that even Fenris had to return. He turned from the men and crawled back into the tent searching under blankets and pillows. He scrabbled through the cloth, taking care not to rip it under his sharp talons. Gone! He backed out of the tent slowly and turned back to Hawke who was looking at him mischievously. Fenris glared imperiously and stomped forward hand outstretched.

          The apple appeared from a pocket in his robes, looking no worse for wear. His eyes fixed upon it and he reached to take it from Hawke. An enormous hand wrapped around his wrist and he was pulled forward, nearly toppling into Garrett’s lap, teeth baring as Anders’ and Varric chuckled and he could _feel_ Hawke’s laughter. He was just about to retort angrily when Hawke pulled his face closer and kissed him hard before setting him to rights and placing the apple gently in his hand. His face burned as he dazedly managed to sit down beside Hawke and take his plate.

          They ran through their plan to get to Kirkwall, the most direct route straight on until they hit Lowtown. Course set they quickly cleared the camp, packing the tents and loading up their spoils. The heat of the Marches was a stifling unwavering wall, they pushed themselves hard. Feet eating up the ground as they traveled, sweat poured and they had to stop often to rest in the limited shade.

          Anders was pulling up the rear with Hawke, both Mages scouring the ground they trampled for useful herbs and plants. Varric was keeping to the front, scouting for any lingering pockets of Bandits and keen eye looking for tripwires or any other number of nasty surprises. Fenris was middleman, keeping an eye on their lagging companions and keeping Varric in his sights. Kirkwall was a dark shadow on the horizon when his ears caught the baleful howling. He turned back just in time to watch a pack of Mabari come crashing down the hill. He dropped his load and swiftly ripped his blade from his back.

          Varric doubled back and found a high rise that he could perch on, Garrett and Anders moving to flank Fenris on his left and right side. Scowling he spread his feet and sank gracefully into his ready stance. The mangy dogs came snarling through the underbrush and he had barely a second to breathe before charging to meet them.

          Lightning ripped from one body to another, and the pack whined loudly as he slashed through flesh. Blood splattering him as moved, dodging both fireballs and foaming maws lined with wickedly sharp teeth. He could hear the thrumming of Bianca and Varric’s triumphant calls as they felled canine bodies one after another.

          It looked for all but a moment that they were drawing the battle to a close when a rallying cry lit from the cliffs and he heard Varric curse and slide down the sandy mount. An arrow ripped through the air, so close he could feel the fletching graze his cheek. He spun in time to see bodies pouring from the caves just above the cliffs and he groaned as the crowd split, effectively pinning them.

          “Hawke?” Anders asked staff raising and flames licking over his empty palm.

          Above them a lone figure stood calling out orders, he caught sight of Hawke and sneered, “Ah the Champion of Kirkwall! What luck we’ve had in our catch men!” Raucous laughter echoed, Fenris stepped back and felt Hawke’s own against his.

          “Allow us to introduce ourselves,” A mocking bow and a smirk graced the man’s face, “Evets. Leader of Evets Marauders at your service your Grace.” He pulled up from his bow and cocked his head at their little group.

          “Caused quite a bit of trouble for me the last time we tried this route.” He continued flipping a dagger in his hand, a picture of nonchalance, “Seems to me you owes up a little payback, am I right men?” A resounding howl of approval from both men and remaining Mabari and all jocularity fell from Evets’ face.

          “Take the pretty elf alive, but kill the rest and bring me the Champion’s head.” A final wave and Evets disappeared back into the caverns above.

          The crowd around them inched ever closer, testing the boundary, looking for weakness. Not that twenty to four was by any means overkill, an errant thought that Fenris snorted at. Evets final command piqued him, pretty elf indeed. He had no fear that Danarius was behind this but he’d relish crushing this man’s heart all the same.

          Varric apparently tired with the dancing fired a warning shot into the group and a strangled cry rang out as a man fell to his knees, crossbow bolt protruding from his chest. The Mabari smelling blood were the first to pounce, and Fenris’ skin itched as he felt Magic rolling off the Mages to his back. Anders’ powerful Mind Blast shoving bodies back far enough that they could begin their barrage, Garrett following up with a mighty push with Maker’s Hammer and they finally had breathing room. Varric slipped into the shadows as only a Rouge could do, reappearing to fire off a bolt or toss a flask of his special concoctions. Fenris bolted from their circle, lyrium glowing brightly despite the sun. Phasing quickly in and out of the ranks of bandits hacking and slicing, watching as bodies fell and screaming rose in a cacophony. They toiled mercilessly, their full power coming to bear as they battered down the Marauders. The sand under their feet turned a brilliant crimson; their robes, armor and clothing sodden with the lifeblood of their assailants. Fenris grinned with exhilaration as he brought his pommel down upon a Bandits head, face going slack as the force cracked his spinal cord. Whipping around he faced the path once more only to find that they had finished off the last of them.

          Electricity bolts still crackling from Hawke’s staff as he too turned and saw the carnage that they had wrought, watching as Varric lowered Bianca and kicked the body closest to him grinning at Hawke and mouthing something. A number of kills if he had to guess, he turned slightly and tried to find a slightly less bloody piece of cloth with which to clean his blade. He had hardly gone two steps before –

          “ANDERS!” Hawke’s bellowing cry rang out. Fenris jolted around expecting to see the Mage lying bleeding out on the ground, and not as it were, him scrambling madly up the cliff face and through to the cavern. The white-blue veins were all he could make of him before he disappeared into the entrance and they were making after him as fast as they possibly could.

          They could hear the bellow of Justice as they made it to the cave entrance. They could hear the cries of yet more Marauders from the depths, the terrified screaming of men that who had certainly meet their end at the hands of Anders’ Demon. Hawke rushed in, no thought other than to get their Healer back alive, grim faced and staff raised. Fenris sighed and followed as Varric ran after him. The closer they got the more he could hear of the Fade Creature, its otherworldly voice eerie and all-encompassing in the craggy expanse of the grotto.

          **_“FOR YOUR CRIMES I SHALL DELIVER YOU UNTO MY JUSTICE!”_** Anders’ form was barely visible amidst the hurricane of raw power that was exuding from his body, crackling white blue, bolts striking against rocks and bodies indiscriminately. The hair at the base of Fenris’ neck stood on end as he watched the Fade Spirit manipulate Anders. Hawke moved them forcibly as a flare of power came too close for comfort, crouching down behind several large boulders. Either Justice would drain Anders’ of what mana he had left and would have to stop (in theory at least) or he’d run out of targets.

          **_“YOU WOULD DARE THREATEN TO ENSLAVE ONE OF OUR OWN. COME OUT AND RECEIVE YOUR JUDGMENT!”_**

Fenris’ head shot up at that, of all the things for Justice to take over for…and it was for his own sake? Irritable and suspecting duplicity in the Creature’s words Fenris shrugged off Hawke’s hand on his shoulder and hurled himself into the fray, lyrium flaring as he hefted his sword. Only to watch Anders stagger suddenly and drop like a stone. Echoing silence in the cease of the maelstrom, resounding only for a moment before Evets appeared before the two of them and it was all he could do to parry the Rouge’s twin blades and knock him back. Hawke and Varric quickly regained their senses and moved from their hiding spot. As yet _more_ men clogged the small expanse, Hawke drew up his staff snarling and drawing deeply before he simply exploded with mana reminiscent of Anders' storm. He could feel a thin barrier erect itself shielding them from most of the damage as bodies were slammed against the sharp edges of the stone walls. Fenris looked down to see the Healer with his staff in his hands, still holding the barrier even as he weakened.

          “Let’s end this quickly,” He growled, stepping outside the barrier and quickly beginning to dispatch those that hadn’t died instantaneously from Garrett’s spell. Varric ran up the base’s wooden structure continuously firing Bianca, while Garrett used his considerable force to herd the remaining Marauders into the center of the cave. Static cages kept them bound sapping their energies and dealing considerable damages. Fenris looked among the dead, and then to the men Hawke held prisoner…where was –

          “Fenris!”

          He turned and watched as Evets backed Anders into a wall, mana too low to do much more than just wisps of flames. He kept up with the Rouge’s knives, staff whittled as he blocked. Indecisive he looked to Hawke, who was too busy corralling to keep tabs on his party, and Varric who had found stragglers and was trying to keep his own hide in one piece.

          Snarling loudly he turned back to the Mage, only to find Evets gone and Anders on the ground. Exhausted and dangerously low on mana. He strode to the man and pulled him to his feet, honey eyes looking at him with thanks before widening almost comically at something behind him.

          He felt the Rouge slip from the shadows behind him, and he had mere seconds to pull his blade in front of him as a knife came at him. Despite his considerable skills with his blade, a great sword was not a dueling weapon. Combined with his exhaustion, too long in battle with little time to catch his breath and he ended up pushed back against the Mage behind him. Lyrium lines guttering out as he tried desperately to ignite them, too weary to keep them going. He grunted with effort, merely trying to keep a defense up until either Anders could cast, or Hawke or Varric saw that they were in trouble.

          Looking to the other men that were _still fucking herding_ the bandits in the center of the cave. His attention lapsed and he had barely turned his attention back to Evets before he kicked out and slammed Fenris back into Anders. A sickening crack as the Mage’s head collided with the stone wall, sliding down it with a throaty gurgle. He swayed slightly, desperately trying to keep his feet before regaining them and stepping to shield Anders.

          “Usele-” He started to reproach the Mage only to be caught off guard yet again as Evets reappeared. He parried once, twice –

          His eyes widened as he watched the man’s blade slide forward and into his arm, blade slicing at his wrists. He grit his teeth and parried the next blow, blood making his hold slick on the leather grip. Evets dodged and feinted, and in his pain and enervation he misjudged the direction and left his right flank open, crying out as he felt the jagged edges of the dirk slice into the meat of his hip. He fell to a knee, desperately keeping the Mage behind him. He eyed the man as he circled, striking out in an off kilter pattern, more pain and blood as the knives found targets and cut deeply. He choked as the blows came more and more rapidly and it was all he could do to shield his vitals, on his knees as the Rouge rose in triumph. Behind him he felt a shift, and a tingling of magic, and he nearly crowed as Anders gripped his ankle. Letting him know he was awake and that he had the mana they both desperately needed.

          He saw a flash from the corner of his eye, a sweeping gesture and then…

          Spots of black obscured his vision and he sat back on his heels. Looking down he saw that with his attention on Anders he’d left himself open for attack. He ran a hand down his leathers, palm wet and sticky red. His mind was growing foggy, eyes blurred and then finally he slumped forward into the blackness of the Void, an odd howling the only sound he heard as the darkness swallowed him whole.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I know...I'm an awful person. 
> 
> Will it appease you to know this hurt me too?
> 
> Fight scenes are difficult, it's hard for me to keep up with where everyone is...
> 
>  Anyone else get that surge of rage when yet ANOTHER group of enemies just crops up out of nowhere, even if you felt for damn sure you'd gotten them all? 
> 
> Love you guys XD don't berate me too harshly...


	5. Convalescence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am a tit, I apologize for the delay.  
> It's been a really long couple of days.  
> I am sorry.

          Pain was the only feeling that he could rightly comprehend at the moment. The darkness was slowly becoming less so, still blurry and so Maker damned thick, but at the edges it was starting to lighten. He could smell smoke, the pungent odor of elfroot and other herbs intermingling in a maddening myriad of scents. He blinked slowly, and the image he was seeing sharpened somewhat. His abdomen was burning with pain, and he wheezed in effort to not scream.

          He could hear voices that intermixed in a confusing disharmony of sound, an argument. Lilting notes of one voice against the taut strains of another. He couldn’t discern words, and in the pain he felt no need to try. A rocky crag of a ceiling spread out above him and he tried to concentrate on the lines of the rock to distract him from the pain that was radiating throughout every fiber of his being. A soft touch, a swell of numbness and he sighed in relief. Eyes closing and he lost himself in the wave of unconsciousness.

 

 

          The next time he was pulled from sleep he was more alert. The scene had changed, no longer in a cavern. Or so he thought. The vaulted ceiling above him was still stone, but smooth and patterned. He was warm and the surface below him soft. There was still the stench of elfroot lingering, the air damp and foul. It was difficult to draw each breath, his lungs burning with the effort. His eyes skittered to take in what he could from his position. He knew this place, but was confused as to how he had gotten there.

          Anders’ clinic. But…how?

          His mind was still a jumbled mess, pain threatening to drag him back down into the inky darkness of unknowing. He fought it, beating it back until he could focus a little more. He could feel the heavy weight of a hand in his and he turned his head carefully. Hawke.

          The giant of a man was perched in a chair that looked incapable of holding him. Head bent in sleep, shoulders slumped and gentle wuffs of breath escaping him. He looked exhausted, skin pale and drawn, mouth turned down in a grimace. His clothing still bore the remnants of a hard fought battle, blood streaking across fabrics and exposed flesh.

Fenris was loathe to wake him. Instead he turned his head again, only to find on the other side of his cot, Anders.

          The Mage too was asleep. Head lolling to one shoulder, arms crossed tightly over himself, as if to ward off the chill of Darktown. His clothing too was torn and bloodied with patches of mud spattering the folds of his robes.

          He scrunched his face and wracked his brain, he remembered going to the Wounded Coast. Of fighting bandits…Mabari…of a cave and the echoes of a booming voice echoed in a cavern. The pain in his midsection throbbed as he tried to pull the memories to the forefront. Something clicked into place and he was inundated with recollections of the battle with Evets Marauders. Of protecting Anders and his subsequent injuries.

          Energy sapped, he fell back against the pillows with a grunt. Breath short and whistling through his nose as the pain enveloped him again. He gritted his teeth, hands fisting in blankets and Hawke's hand.

          The pressure must’ve woken Hawke, because the man stirred. Eyes blinking myopically before focusing on Fenris, widening as they took in his expression. He stood slightly, and reached across the cot to shake Anders.

          “Hey, Anders! He’s awake!” A laugh punctuated his exclamation. The Healer started awake and peered down at the Elf. He stood quickly and reached by his feet and plucked a vial of potion up, and held it to Fenris’ lips. The warrior gulped down the liquid, a cooling balm to his parched throat. An elfroot potion. It spread through him, easing the pain as it went. He sighed as he felt it knitting his belly back together.

          “Maker am I glad to see you awake.” Hawke crowed, jubilant and wiggling like an over excited pup. He was careful in his touching but Fenris could see him struggle not to pull him into a hug.

          “What happened? I remember some but it’s –,” He cast about for a suitable word, “Hazy.”

          Anders stood and plucked the blankets from his body, hands gentle as he inspected the wound site. Hawke leaned forward, eyebrows drawing together as he began to fill Fenris in. Healing light shone from Anders’ palms as he healed, mouth pursed in concentration.

          “There was so much blood Fenris and we were out of lyrium and elfroot. Fuck, Anders was pulling on dregs to just get the wound closed.” Hawke said nodding to the Mage. “He did it though, and we moved quickly to get you back here. Transporting you opened the wound again, but we managed. He’s been working on you for the past two days. There’s only so much magic and health potions can do.”

          Hawke took a breath and looked down at him, worry knitting across his handsome features. “I’m shite at healing, magic’s too erratic as you well know. I was terrified that we weren’t gonna make it in time.” His face fell as he murmured the words, head falling forward and laying on Fenris’ chest. He could feel the man trembling, breath unsteady and hitching as he talked. He could feel the tears Hawke tried to hide as he kept his head bowed, the wetness soaking into his tunic.

          “I couldn’t keep up with healing you,” Anders said, shuffling back and collapsing into the chair. “Lyrium aside, a wound that deep is hard to heal. We tried to pour potions down your throat but you just kept spewing them back up.” He smirked tiredly, fingers pulling at threads on his robes. “That left us with topical remedies only, and what I could manage with my depleted mana. It’s just about closed now, and it shouldn’t scar. You’ll hurt for a couple more days, but considering how badly off you were that seems like a small detail.” He shrugged.

          Hawke had stood during the Healer’s monologue, eyes reddened and face streaked with tears. Fidgeting with the blankets, he watched as the information sank in. Fenris grimaced at the thought of a few days longer of convalescence. Hawke was going to be insufferable, he could tell.

          “As a separate issue though, I am very grateful.” Anders said, voice barely a whisper. “I thought I was done for, and had it not been for you…I probably wouldn’t have made it. I owe you a debt.” He said slightly louder, head bowing.

          Fenris’ eyes widened slightly, at the man’s words. He grit his teeth, “It seems that you’ve made it up, healing me as you did.” He cocked his head at Anders’, irritation flaring as the man shook his head.

          “That barely scrapes the surface. What was I supposed to do, let Messere Mighty Fist try and heal you?” He grinned sheepishly before standing and dusting off his robes nonchalantly before bending at the waist slightly in deference to Hawke and moving to the back of his clinic.

          Growling in his throat, Fenris threw his head against the pillows under his head. He turned to look at Hawke, who was watching him with an impish smile. He scowled at the man and wiggled unhappily.

          “Please tell me that I’m am fit enough to leave.” He glowered, trying to raise himself from his prone position. Hawke threw a look at him, and he slumped back against the cot.

          “I’ll ask Anders’ and we’ll see if we can’t move you to the Estate. Shouldn’t be a problem seeing as the cellar door is just a few paces away from here.”  Garrett stood and with a gentle kiss to his forehead moved to follow the Healer.

          Fenris grumbled, he would be free of Anders’ clinic even if he had to bribe Varric and Isabella to help move him.

 

 

 

          Recuperating under Hawke’s attentions was a study in patience. Not that he had much of it to begin with, and with Garrett hovering about him, he was nearly at his wits end. He couldn’t so much as sneeze without the man running in with cloth scraps and tonics. He was laid up in their bed, forbidden from trying to move without assistance. Lest he pull open the cut, or disturb his insides from healing. Orana brought him food, and Hawke tried to feed him. At least he did the first time, until Fenris had snapped at him.

          “A man grown doesn’t need a nursemaid to wipe his face Hawke!” He said, temperament worse than ever. Though he apologized profusely later, when he realized just how hurt Garrett had been. The man was his shadow, trying to anticipate his wants before he could voice them. It was exhausting and irritating. He longed fervently for the day Anders would declare him fit.

          It had been a week. A long, irritating week, before Anders allowed him to get up. Under the express direction that he would take it easy. Which he deliberately broke the second he was able, too antsy and overly pent up with energy. He grabbed his sword and disappeared onto a balcony to practice and expend his restlessness. Hawke had found him like that, hours later with a cocked eyebrow and a distressed expression. He had faced him with a petulant expression of his own. Garrett had merely shook his head and laughed, and sat to watch him continue his exercise.

          He had just finished when Varric had shown up, asking after Hawke and asking for his help. Fenris had bristled when he was told point blank, No, he wasn’t coming. Ears flaming with anger he had stormed past Hawke and ensconced himself in their bedroom.

          Foolish Mage, foolish foolish foolish. He had raged, and whined, too ready to be back out and helping Hawke with his errands only to be kissed on the forehead and left behind like a housewife, with the promise that Hawke would be back that evening.

          He threw himself into a chair in the library and stewed, ears twitching as he muttered to himself. The door opened and he glanced up to see Bodahn peeking around the corner, sighing he waved to the dwarf.

        “Messere, there is a gentleman here to see you. Prince Sebastian? Are you receiving?” Bodahn queried. Fenris nodded and told the man to show Sebastian to the library. “Very good Messere, I’ll have Orana bring tea in a few moments.”

          Fenris grunted and settled back into the chair, legs drawing up and getting comfortable.

          The clanking of armor echoed down the hall, and Fenris grinned as his friend entered the library. White armor gleaming, pristine as always.

          “Well now, it’s good to see you hale and whole. After that business on the Coast, gave us all a good fright, so it’s nice to see you up and about.” Sebastian’s brogued voice echoed in the expanse of the room. He made his way to a settee across from the arm chair Fenris was perched in.

          “If anything, the healing after was the hardest part.” Fenris said with a small frown. Sebastian laughed at his put out expression and when Orana entered the room he graciously accepted a cup of tea, thanking her profusely before turning back to Fenris.

          “You’re a man of action, lying in bed isn’t something that comes easily. But you’re in fighting form now, I have no doubts. Thanks to Hawke’s Apostate, I’m sure.” Sebastian said, sipping from the ridiculously fragile china. Fenris bit his lip at the mention of Anders. Very well aware of how much and truly how little had changed in that matter since he had last talked to Sebastian.

        “Yes. The Healer had a great deal to do with my convalescence and I’m appreciative.” He sighed, shaking out his arms and pulling his sleeves down to fiddle with them. The Prince watched as he fidgeted, waiting patiently for Fenris to talk.

          “The Ma-…Anders, he...” He started, eyebrows furrowing as he tried to find words. “Nothing has changed, not really. Hawke still speaks of him while he sleeps. Still calls out to him.” He turned his head away, face drawing closed as he struggled to keep his inflection level.

          “While I am thankful for the Mage’s hand in my recuperation, I still wish…” He sighed.

          “You are still pained by Hawke’s words. And you struggle with the anger you feel at Anders’ part in it.” Sebastian said, eyes on his half empty cup. “Betrayal is the worst kind of hurt, especially by ones that you call friends, even more so by those you love.”

          “Hawke hasn’t done anything though,” Fenris sniffed lightly, face a mask of calm. “He is faithful and there shouldn’t be any lingering doubts that I have.”

          “Fenris,” Sebastian sighed, leaning forward to place his cup on the table between them. “I know you, as well as anybody could aside from Hawke. And I know you’re hurting. Especially since that night at the Hanged Man. Everyone saw how Anders was hanging on Hawke, and we surely saw them…well…” He faltered, at a loss to delicately word the kiss that Hawke and Anders had shared.

          “That night aside, there is nothing that would point to Hawke cavorting with the Mage.” Fenris spat, words acerbic and distasteful in his mouth. He looked to his friend and recoiled from the look of pity on his face. “Stop that, there isn’t anything happening.”

          “Far be it for me to speak ill of Hawke,” He said still carefully picking his words, “However this…problem. It is festering in you Fenris. Don’t think I don’t see it, and if it’s not dealt with, everyone will.” His voice was soft and soothing. And it made Fenris seethe, for Sebastian to think he needed to be handled with kid gloves, set his teeth on edge.

          “And I pose to you the same question I did in the Chantry. How exactly should I question him? He has done nothing wrong, Anders aside, he is guiltless. Questioning him would do nothing but hurt him.” Snappish, he glared at his friend. Arms crossed and body thrumming with anger.

          “Peace Fenris,” The calming reply only angered him further and he strove to remain seated instead of giving into his urge to pace. He pressed himself further into the chair, the wood creaking in protest as he shifted.

          “Perhaps, instead of questioning Hawke, you should go instead to Anders. Seek answers at the source.” Sebastian said lowly, fingers circling the delicate circle of his cup.

          “Venhedis.” Fenris spat, caving finally in his urge to pace. He stalked up the rich carpet of the library and back, fingers digging into his sides as he moved.

          “Fenris –,”

          “No. NO! I will not go sniveling to him, as if I were some maiden in one of Varric’s books. Nothing is happening, it’s just some dreams. He hasn’t done anything wrong. I am overreacting to something beyond Hawke’s control. He loves me, and I him. And this is just an unfortunate happenstance that will go away.” He snarled, turning and looking at Sebastian who stoically leveled a glance back at him.

          “As you wish. I still hold to my advice, and should you need a listener, you know where to find me.” He sighed and stood, dipping his head at Fenris and making for the door. “A good night to you my friend, the Peace of the Maker upon you.” And with that he was gone, leaving Fenris to pace in the library, mind mulling over their conversation.

 

 

 

          Hawke found him still pacing, hours later and cocked his head at his lover. Fenris’ jaw clenched and he shook his head once before moving into Hawke’s embrace. His rumbling voice reverberating through Fenris as he listened to the man spin his tale about his day. He sat with Garrett as he ate, his own plate near untouched. He chose instead to revel in the closeness and warmth that ensconced him as he sat with Garrett. Following him into the bath, relaxing into the hot water as they bathed, and then up the stairs into their room and into bed.

          “Fenris?” Garrett asked as the Elf clung to him as they lay in bed, his head resting on his chest. Heart beat thudding loudly in his ear, breath in tune, and fingers clinging deathly tight to his night shirt. He shook his head at the question, instead breathing in the scent of Hawke, the clean smell of soap, musky undertones of his skin beneath that. A smell that was purely Garrett.

          Hawke didn’t press the issue and he got comfortable with his Elf pressed close, sleep taking him quickly. Fenris continued to hold onto Hawke, as if by his touch alone he could erase the pain that was burning in his heart. His eyes burned as tears eked from the corners, and he scrunched his face, mouth clenched against the sobs that threatened to wrack his body. Hawke was his. His. His love, his Amatus. He cried softly into the fabric of Hawke’s shirt, heaving with emotion.

          He clung ever tighter as Hawke began to murmur. Choking back the wails that echoed in his chest, head spinning with the tidal wave of emotion that threatened to pull him under.

 

 

          As Hawke called out to another, Fenris dug his fingers into his clothes crying with the agony of it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse for myself anymore.
> 
> I don't even know why I do this to myself. I am exceedingly good at hurting my own heart.
> 
>  
> 
> On healing:
> 
> Because in the game you can't just have people convalescing after each quest, potions and healing powers are instantaneous. And that's all well and good, but for this I chose to extend the time it would take to heal something as severe as what Fenris endured. Even Anders' as good as he is, isn't the Maker, and cannot as such work miracles. Spells require mana, mana requires either judicious use of Lyrium or time.
> 
> I highly doubt that Hawke would allow Anders to drown himself in Lyrium, especially if Fenris was out of danger. Therefore, less lyrium and more time is required. 
> 
> As for why they couldn't just shove a bottle of health potion into Fenris' mouth and massage his throat to get him to drink it, I suggest you try that for yourself. It's a loooot harder than just emptying a bottle into someone's mouth and letting gravity do the rest. It's more likely that the person will drown on the liquid than swallow it.
> 
>  
> 
> On Hawke's shitty healing abilities - 
> 
> In the lexicon on Force Magic it describes it as: A raw application of magic in all it's vicious glory.
> 
> While exceeding powerful, it needs a great deal of manipulation and discipline to master. It's not for the faint of heart. Such overwhelming power requires uncommon precision to use correctly. You can't just go in swinging a staff and hoping for the best.
> 
> Hawke's a beast of a man, but I figure that he'd be so busy trying to contain his Force Magic it wouldn't leave much room for learning anything else. Force magic is a wild magic, healing is more quiet. He's just not cut out for it. So he leaves it in Anders' capable hands and runs into the fray acting like a fucking Tank instead.


	6. The Monster Within

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ......don't...don't go into this unprepared, this will hurt.
> 
> I don't want to list off trigger warnings here...as it will spoil the chapter.  
> If you feel you need a heads up please feel free to ask, you can email me at sovietamblacktree@yahoo.com or pm me or what have you. Be aware...this chapter, albeit short, packs a whumping punch.

          Summer continued to bombard Kirkwall, rolling in waves through the streets. The air was stifling, not even the breeze coming off the Waking Sea doing much to abate the humidity and baking sun. Much of Hightown had emptied at the beginning of the heat wave. Le Bon Ton moving off to more comfortable climes, the well to do gathering in their expansive Chateaux and Estates to discuss the coming Season. Hawke had received many a letter inviting him to visit. Each one held the promise of Grand Soirees, lively Balls, and thrilling Hunts. He had shrugged off all of them, choosing instead to brave the heat and invest his time into Kirkwall.

          He and his ragtag crew of Misfits taking work where it could be found and cooling off after a hard day’s work in the Hanged Man. He had no need of the coin, choosing instead to funnel his share into funding projects for the citizens of Lowtown, and those of Darktown.

          The group had had a busy time of it, as the heat bore down upon the City, the stones sweat with the humidity, irrigating the phosphorescent lichen that rose from the cracks of Kirkwall’s foundation and swarmed the very walls of Darktown. The eerie light of the lichen lingering even after the torch light had been extinguished. Worse yet, it oozed a thick cloud of fumes, Chokedamp, a hazy cloud that crept along the un-vented tunnels and stole the breath of those that lived there.

          Anders had been inundated with swells of Darktown’s residents, fleeing from the Chokedamp. A veritable sea of bodies had swarmed the clinic, filling the cots and every space besides. The Healer had petitioned to the Chantry for help, but a reply had not been sent and nothing had been done for the poor of the City.

          Fenris had watched as the Mage had run himself ragged for weeks before Hawke had intervened. Finding able bodied women and men that could help Anders, tracking down the herbs needed for elfroot potions and salves that were desperately needed. The Healer had to be dragged from his clinic nightly, force fed and wrangled into bed to sleep for a few hours before he inevitably marched his way back down to the cellar and to his clinic.

          He had bitten his tongue to the point of blood when Hawke had declared that Anders was to stay in the Estate. He had stood silently as Anders was frog marched to and from the Hanged Man for a few hours of relaxation back to Hawke’s mansion. He had merely bowed his head and forged on when he began to find Anders’ belongings scattered about the many rooms. Half written portions of his Manifesto littering Garrett’s writing desk, books piled precariously by Fenris’ favorite chair in the library, robes and his ridiculous feathered coat hanging off seats here and there.

          He watched but said nothing, and the weeks had rolled by.

          He followed Hawke as he went about his days, trailing him as they trekked up Sundermount in search of herbs. He helped eliminate the various vagabonds that threatened the streets of Kirkwall. And he attended Wicked Grace night, sat next to Hawke and acted as if nothing was amiss. Fenris spoke only when he was spoken to, reigning in his emotions and choosing instead to be as attentive as he possibly could to Hawke, devoting his entire self to helping the man as he waged war against Kirkwall’s threats.

          Emotions that he refused to allow to cross his face warred in his mind, in his soul. Toxic and nauseating, cloying and oppressive. He spent his nights in Hawke’s arms sleepless as the man murmured against his skin of another. His appetite dwindled, and with it his strength. He tired quickly, but fronted that as well. Relying on his Lyrium more and more each time he was called upon to fight, and dealing silently with the burnout and pain that came with using his brands thusly.

          With all that was happening Hawke was completely oblivious to the dour pall that seemed to follow the Tevinter Elf wherever he went. And on it went for weeks more.

 

          All Soul’s Day came and went with a show of great pomp and ceremony. The Chantry spending lavishly on the Holiday what they refused to spend on the needy and destitute. It made him bite his tongue as they marched through the streets, somber faces watching as they lit massive pyres in honor of Andraste and those that had been called to the Maker’s side. He had held Hawke’s hand while they marched, and later him as he cried in their bed. Comforting and coddling the man as the memory of Leandra, Bethany, of his Father was brought forth, still raw and bleeding.

          August slowly drew to a close, and Kingsway came in with yet another wave of baking heat.

          He was aware of the looks that were exchanged when he showed up to Wicked Grace, skin waxen regardless of his darkened skin. Eyes shadowed and lips pulled forever into a grimace. He tried harder to partake at meals, but even the apples that Hawke would gift to him tasted like ash in his mouth.

          He stopped washing with Hawke present, too aware of his gaunt frame, his skin scabbing where the lyrium pulsed as he fought, the brands burning outward from their cage. As if they would burn right across his flesh and devour him whole. Raw and irritated, it took ever more effort to ignite them, and even more determination and strength to use them.

          First Varric, then Aveline had tried to stop him as he followed Hawke from Varric’s suite, speaking in low hushed, concerned tones. He had only shook his head, and stalked from their presence. Unwilling to divulge the tangled web inside that was slowly choking him from the inside out.

          The weeks drug by, Kingsway drawing to a close, the heat finally abating and the beginnings of Harvestmere marching in with a steady wave of respite from the Summer months. The City gave a sigh of relief as the temperatures began to drop, and the Ton returned once more to Kirkwall. Merchants once more setting up shop in the Marketplace, and Hightown bustling with the whispers of the coming Season.

          Anders’ clinic slowly emptied as the Chokedamp retreated. Things returning back to as normal as it could be in a City as troubled as Kirkwall. Hawke began to take on other jobs as requests flowed in. Fenris was kept busy, following Garrett as he took on quests. Sharp eyes watching the interactions between the Champion and the Apostate Healer. Nothing had changed on that front, if anything in the face of trouble their bond had strengthened all the more.

          Hawke’s nightly conversations had taken on a more wistful tone, and it tore at Fenris to listen to the man speak of Anders. Anders who was still residing within the Estate. Anders who had become more and more tactile with Garrett.

          He became, if possible, more withdrawn. Tending to the pains of his body. Lyrium lines fracturing in agonizing fissures, cracked and bleeding at the end of the day. He took great pains to keep it all from Hawke. Donning long sleeved, loose fitted shirts and trousers that swamped his lower half. His bony hips needing a belt cinched tightly about his middle to keep the clothing from slipping off.

          Sebastian for his part had tried again to talk to him. The man had surprised him at the end of a job, as he bathed in the small pool of water they had camped near. Taking in the scabbed and gaunt flesh where once there had been lean muscle. It had ended in sharp glares and harsher words. On his side at least, Sebastian had needled him, and finally full out begged him to seek aide outside of his own paltry skills.

          He had refused, and chose instead to lick his wounds in secret.

          He invested himself instead in becoming more adept in disguising his ailments. To Hawke’s confusion, he began to wear more and more bulky clothing. He rebuffed the man’s advances, not willing to stand naked before Garrett. Fenris still made sexual advances to the sole pleasure of his lover alone, much to Hawke’s consternation. They quarreled about it, anxiety and confusion lacing Garrett’s voice. He brooked no argument, and batted away his hands as he reached for him.

          He nearly broke at the look of surprise and concern that had earned him. Fenris wanted nothing more than to feel Hawke’s arm around him, to relax in the warmth and love that emanated from this man. But as he looked at himself in the full length mirror in the bathing room, as he prodded and poked at the decaying flesh of his body, lyrium lines a stark contrast he resisted. The edges flaring red and angry, hips jutting, and ribs visible under his skin.

          He felt like a monster, an imposter posing where a once proud Elf had stood. Useless aside from his Lyrium, his self-imposed torment stripping away the strength he had once had. His sword arm was weak, barely able to lift his Great Sword. He endangered every venture they took, and he hated himself for it.

          His friends had stood and watched as he paved his path hell-bent and half crazed until they could take it no longer. They had waited for a day that Hawke had been busy pandering to the Ton, attending a Garden Party in a bid to perhaps draw their attentions to the less fortunate residents of the City. They found him wallowing in bed, curtains drawn tightly across windows, eyes closed as he concentrated on Hawke’s scent that lingered in the pillows. He raised his head as they barged in, faces drawn in determination.

          He had put up a fight as they had dragged him from the room and down the hall. But he had finally grown too weak, lyrium guttering. Useless. They were gentle, handling him as if he were spun sugar. He quit fighting when he realized that he would not, could not escape them.

          Varric opened the doors through the Estate, Aveline and Sebastian hefting him between themselves, weight too slight to be a burden as they marched down the stairs to the cellar. With dawning comprehension he began to struggle anew, but they forced him into the landing just outside Anders’ clinic and through the clinic door.

          Anders’ was in the middle of healing a small child, face bloody and scrunched with the pain, when they carted Fenris in. He finished quickly, mending the gashed lip and giving the anxious mother a vial of elfroot to continue healing the injury. He murmured quick instructions to her before ushering her out the door and extinguishing the lamp, closing and locking the door behind him. He turned back to the unlikely quartet that had invaded his clinic and cocked his eyebrow, waiting for an explanation.

          Sebastian kept a heavy hand on Fenris’ shoulder, keeping him pinned to the cot they had placed him on and allowed Varric to take point.

          “Broody’s been feeling poorly,” He said without preamble, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder, “He’s been hurting something terrible, and refuses to get it checked out. Seeing as you’re the resident healer, maybe you can talk some sense into the prickleburr.” He turned slightly and grimaced at the Elf in question.

          “I am perfectly capable of caring for myself, I don’t need his help.” Fenris growled, head bowed and glaring at his feet. He attempted to stand only to have Sebastian increase pressure to keep him sitting.

          “Fenris the fact that Sebastian helped kidnap you and bring you here instead of to confession should show you just how serious we are.” Varric said.

          Sebastian scowled at the comment but didn’t deny it. Aveline crossed her arms and moved forward.

          “He’s lost weight, and I’ve noticed that he barely uses his Sword, if at all.” She said, weight shifting from foot to foot.

          “Why use a weapon, when you are a weapon.” Fenris griped.

          Aveline ignored the comment and continued, “He’s lost a goodly amount of weight, and he’s drawn. Even on the way here he wasn’t able to activate his brands.”

          “We worried, so we brought him to you. We’ll let you check him out. We’ll be right outside the door if he tries to make a run for it.” Varric said, he caught Fenris’ eye and inclined his head before making for the door. Aveline and Sebastian on his heels, door clacking shut behind them.

 

          He growled lowly in his throat, arms curling around his middle as he sat shivering in the damp cold of the clinic waiting for the Mage to try anything. When he heard the tinkling of vials he raised his head somewhat, just barely able to make out Anders’ shape through his fringe. The Apostate stayed quiet, seemingly ignoring him.

          “If that is all, I will leave you to your duties.” Fenris snarled, making to stand. Anders’ whirled around face stern and in full Healer mode.

          “No, that is not all. I won’t make you talk, and I can’t make you show me what they were speaking of. But I’ll be damned if I let you walk through those doors if you’re as poorly as they claim. You’ll sit there and wait for Hawke to come collect you, or you can tell me what’s going on. Your choice.” He said, arms crossing as if he dared Fenris to try and leave.

          “You cannot keep me here! I will not be held captive.” He got to his feet, stumbling as the muscles in his legs struggled to hold him. He saw Anders’ carefully watch him, and he straightened quickly and moved forward.

          “No, perhaps not. But if you think I won’t go straight to Garrett, you’re out of your thick skull.” Anders said pursing his lips. Fenris’ eyes widened minutely before he schooled his features.

          “You won’t. There’s nothing wrong, and I am going home. You will not speak to him of this.” Fenris growled lowly, shoulders hunching as he moved slowly ever closer to the door.

          “I will. Fenris, you’re obviously ill. Maker sit down before you fucking fall, you ridiculous Elf.” He groused moving to intercept him. He laid a hand on Fenris’ shoulder, frown growing as he felt the sharp jab of his shoulder. He turned the Elf bodily, and rucked up his sleeves, hissing as he took in the burnt, scabbing skin. The edges of the lyrium raw and cracking, arm itself skeletal. His mouth hung open as he gathered the fabric of the other sleeve and took in the near identical damage.

          He looked up into Fenris’ eyes, finally, face a mask of shock and verging horror. Taking in the gaunt look, hollowed eyes and waxen complexion.

          “Fenris what have you done?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you wondering when I'm going to stop hurting Fenris....I have no clear answer for you. I'm sorry, I don't quite know just yet.  
> Depression is multifaceted monster. It takes many shapes and forms. For some it's the inability to get out of bed, for others it's intolerance of other's presence. For Fenris, I feel it would manifest this way. Lack of appetite, shunning of those he cares for, anger and hatred and just a pool of guilt trips.
> 
> Anders....he knows depression. I feel his character is built around his mental issues. This is a monster he's been hounded by before. Can he help Fenris? Who knows, maybe.  
> As for Hawke not noticing what's going on with Fenris...personal experiences have shown me that even the most caring person, the kindest person can often times not notice when someone is going through this. Depression is a silent monster. One that unless you know what to look for in a person, can often times be overlooked.  
> There is no "Cure" for depression. Not really, no magical fix-all unfortunately.  
> But I feel like I'm preaching to the Choir. This chapter dragged on me. All I want is to skip ahead and write happy fluff and shit. This story is shaping up to be the darkest one I've written ever. Whoohoo....
> 
>  
> 
> On my usage of Le Bon Ton, Season, Ton:
> 
> Le Bon Ton/Ton/Tonne: Words that were used to refer to the privileged upper class of England's society. Bankers, well off Merchants, Nobles and the like. Think Wuthering Heights, Pride and Prejudice...  
> Season: Started late January and though early July. In real life at least. I've decided that the Free Marches, and/or just Kirkwall, would hold their Season in the Winter. When there's nothing else to freaking do.....yup.  
> I found it kind of funny to compare Kirkwall's Elite to the tittering masses of the Tonne. Hawke is not amused. At all.


	7. Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As you may have noticed, I am following a loose timeline of the Game. It's there, but....as more a guideline than actual rule. Things may be switched around, but nothing too major. Dialogue heavy af. Whoops.
> 
> As an aside...I should probably try and find a Beta...hnnngh

          Fenris wrenched his arms out of the stunned Healer’s grasp, smoothing the fabric and wincing as it pulled on his skin.

          “I have done nothing. There is nothing wrong. Now,” He growled and turned for the door again, “I am leaving and you keep silent. It is no-one’s business but my own.” He stalked quickly for the door, only to stumble as his vision blurred. The Elf fought to keep his feet, shaking his head and looking for the door. Only to find Anders peering down at him, face stern and hands outstretched.

          “You have two choices you thrice damned fool.” The Mage snapped, voice taut and brooking no argument. “Either you sit your brooding ass down on a cot and allow me to see what I can do, or I let you go as you keep insisting on. However I will be going to Hawke, and I will be informing him of your condition.” He crossed his arms as he lectured, eyebrow raising high as he leveled his glare at Fenris.

          Fenris bared his teeth menacingly, “You will **not**! This is none of his concern. I will handle it on my own.”

          “And how exactly do you think he’ll feel when you finally collapse? When you manage to burn yourself completely through? This isn’t some scraped knee you can just whether through! Do not make me call in your entourage. See sense!” Anders’ voice rose, imploring and desperate. “I will not be the one to have to explain this, do not make me your accomplice.”

          Striations of Fade-Blue licked along his fair skin, honey-brown eyes glowing with the echoes of his Spirit passenger. The rumbling of Justice underlying his words as he fought to keep control.

          The Elf watched as the man struggled, relaxing only when Anders’ skin cleared of the glowing veins the Fade. He swallowed reflexively and pondered the man’s words. He’d taken such great pains to keep Hawke relatively in the dark, he had no doubt that Anders’ would do as he threatened. The image of Hawke’s face hovered in his mind’s eye, handsome features contorted with misery.

          His shoulders slumped and Anders’ took that as a victory in and of itself. The Healer moved forward to gently guide him to a cot and divesting him of his garments. He hissed lowly as cloth whispered over his skin, catching on the jagged edges of scabs.

          Stripped down to his smalls he sat on the lumpy cot, fingers curling into the woolen blankets and allowed the Mage to examine him.

          “Maker, Fenris.” Anders’ breathed, taking in his emaciated frame. The lyrium stood in sharp relief, edges of the lines blurred with the wounds that trailed every inch of them. Fingers lightly palpitated, cautious and slow. Even still he keened as they brushed across him, as if his skin was an exposed nerve and Anders’ fingers a scraping razor pulling across it.

          His skin fairly itched as Anders’ engulfed him in a healing spell, face drawing in distaste as the magic washed over him. Blessedly cool, soothing the rawness of his skin, drawing the open sores closed slowly but surely. He watched as the redness receded somewhat, lesions and festering wounds becoming decidedly smaller. But not eradicated by any means. Anders’ ended the spell, heaving in a breath at the exertion.

          Moving to a small island amidst the cots, he searched through jars and vials of potions and salves. He studied a few before returning them to the organized chaos until he found what he was looking for. Stepping smartly back up to the elf and cracking the jar open. He allowed Fenris to examine the label and sniff the contents. The stench of tallow, mellowed only by the pungent aroma of elfroot filled his nose and he pulled back with a sneeze. He shrugged his shoulders and grumbled but allowed Anders to apply it to the areas that appeared worse off.

          “All of the healing in the world cannot regain the weight that you have lost, on that front you’ll have to manage on your own.” The Healer said as he moved to Fenris’ back and began applying the thick tincture, hands ghosting over the knobs and grooves of his spine. “As for the Lyrium burns, you’ll need to come back and allow me to work on it. You’ve damaged yourself severely and it’ll take more than one session to completely put it to rights.”

          Fenris glared at his knees and grunted noncommittally, fully intending to disregard Anders’ words. He inhaled sharply as his face was pulled up to look into the Mage’s face.

          “You will do this, or we go to Garrett. Do you understand me?” The words were angry and fairly spat at him. He seethed as the man continued to stare at him.

          He pulled his face from the man’s grasp and nodded sharply, mouth pulled into a grimace.

          “Good. I’m sending you home with a few jars of this. Use it, I will know if you do not.” He snipped, moving to collect a few jars and thrusting them into Fenris’ hands. He swiped his hands on a clean rag and went back to examining the petulant Elf.

          “Eat, even you don’t want to. Small portions, with bland foods at first. Your stomach will thank you for it, I have no doubts it’s shrunk. Porridge, unleavened bread, raw nuts and lean meats. I’d advise against greasy, fatty foods for now. And for the love of Andraste do not attempt to eat Corff’s stew at the Hanged Man. Keep off the wines, ales…drink water, or barring that, ciders and juices.” He said moving to perch on the cot across from Fenris, eyes boring into the Elf as he talked.

          “I can write you up a list of ideas to take to Orana if you’d like. I’m sure she can make something palatable to help you.”

          “I -,” Fenris started to vehemently decline, only to stall at Anders’ warning look. “Fine, yes, that would be appreciated.”  He ground out. Anders nodded and stood again to move to his desk in the back, picking up a quill and scratching instructions on a scrap of parchment.

          “Hawke will have questions I’m sure, I’ll inform him of the treatment plan we’ve agreed to when I close here.” Anders’ said moving to pour pounce from a cup across the paper, rereading his inscription critically.

          Fenris sat ramrod straight at that, “We will not be telling him of this. I allowed you, and will continue to allow you, to attend to my ailment. That is what you asked. I have complied, now you will comply with my own wishes.” He stood and collected his shirt and trousers, slipping them on and reattaching the belt around his hips.

          Anders opened his mouth as if to argue but Fenris beat him to it.

          “No. He is not to be informed of anything. You will keep your blathering mouth shut. Do you understand me, Mage?” He snapped.

          “He deserves to know, Fenris. You cannot keep this from him!” Anders nearly cried out in frustration, anger coloring his words.

          “I can, and I will. Or this comes to an end now.” Fenris shouted, even in his state his Lyrium flared. Pain lancing his healing wounds, but he shoved it back and glowered at the Healer.

          “Fenris..”

          “No. You owe me a debt. I am exacting payment. You will keep your mouth shut, and you will convince those gibbering fools standing watch outside to comply with this.” He said, voice ringing with finality. He took the parchment from Anders’ hands and slipped them among the jars of salve he still had in hand.

          “Garrett will not be bothered with any of this. Nothing will be said, and we will continue as we have.” He said, hip cocking as he waited for Anders’ reply.

          “You would have me lie to him? To smile in his face and pretend that everything is as it should be?” Anders was aghast.

          “Yes, I would have your word on this.” Fenris retorted, words clipped and angry. “Give me your word, Mage.”

          “Fine, Maker damn you, fine!” He spat, hands gesticulating wildly with his anger and disapproval.

          “This is… **unjust**.” He declared morosely, Justice stirring once again.

          Fenris frowned at that, watching the evidence of the Fade Creature play about Anders' features. But nodded once in finality, and moved to exit the clinic, body taut with anxiety and seething with rage all in one.

          “Why? Why would you keep it from him Fenris? Why make him believe that everything is fine?” A last attempt from Anders, words plaintive and perplexed.

          Fenris turned slightly, hand resting lightly on the knob of the door and he kept his eyes down as he chose his words carefully.

          “Because I love him.” Was his simple reply, before he managed to refine his thoughts.

          "I would tear myself apart and be glad of it, if would mean he would be happy. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to see that it remains so.”

          With that he opened the door and exited the clinic, scowling as he saw his entourage waiting just beyond the landing. He moved quickly and entered the cellar of the Hawke Estate and latched the door, trusting that the Mage would intercept them and regale them of his demands.

          He would keep this to himself, Hawke would never need know that anything was amiss. Face setting in determination he move through the cellar and up to the Estate proper, dropping off Anders’ instructions with Orana and making his way to their room. He would set this to rights, and he would continue to pretend.

          For Garrett, he could do no less.

 

          When Hawke arrived home that evening he was in better spirits, engaging in conversation and joining the man for evening meals. He filled his plate with food, and ate. Keeping his face a mask of calm and contentedness, and for the first time in weeks he went to bed with a full belly.

 

\--

          Garrett Hawke moved through his days oblivious to the growing discontent within his Misfits. Fenris kept his eyes sharp and ears open, waiting for whisperings that someone had alerted Hawke to his condition.

         Though in vain, he kept vigilant. Anders had somehow managed to persuade Aveline, Varric and Sebastian all to keep quiet. He kept his end of the bargain, slipping out to Anders’ clinic to have the man check him over and to heal the sores that were slowly beginning to disappear from his body. His strength grew, with it his ability to wield his Sword. He watched as the worry creasing Varric and Aveline’s face eased. In time he mended the fence with both of them.

          Sebastian was another matter completely. The man was short with him when they were in the company of Hawke, and outright enraged when there was no one in hearing distance. Fenris bore the brunt of the Prince’s frustrations with a bored expression. Lies slipping through his lips, talk of amends being made with Garrett, of troubles abating in his worry of Hawke’s relationship with Anders.

          He was having none of it, steadfast in his opinion that if Fenris would only confess his sorrows to Garrett everything would be made clear and healing could truly begin. He shrugged it off, snarking comments aimed to cajole the man into relenting falling short of their mark. It did nothing but strain his relationship with the man.

          Fenris fought with himself every time he made his way to the Darktown Clinic. He was slowly beginning to regain his lost strength. His Sword was no longer a leadened weight in his hand, and he used his brands less. But when he did, it re-opened sores and cracked his skin till he bled. Which had sent him back to Anders in a fit the first time it had happened.

          “This was supposed to go away!” He cursed, shifting as Anders’ steady hands spread more salve across it.

          “Fenris hold still.” Was the snapped reply, shortly followed up with, “You did yourself weeks of damage, a body isn’t capable of just up and healing itself instantaneously, magic and salves or no.”

          He had merely growled in response and allowed the man to slather him up with the sticky tincture. In time he relaxed as Anders’ inspected his skin for new scabs, murmuring in time to his questions and waiting impatiently. Anders would question, and Fenris would scathingly reply.

          Being in such close contact with the Elf’s brands gave Anders’ new insights to the design and their many functions. During their sessions he would cautiously broach the subject of their usage, and occasionally Fenris would deign to answer. With the answers provided, Anders was able to redesign the poultice’s structure, finessing it until it provided greater relief and rejuvenated the branded tissue.

          When he had presented the final result to Fenris, the elf had taken it silently. Prying the lid off and rubbing it into a spot on his hand, ear twitching as he sighed with relief. He looked up at the Mage and bowed his head in deference. The next session had brought the Elf in, pensive and less antagonistic.

          And while he never outright expressed his thanks for the Healer’s help and patience with his outbursts the tone of their meetings changed in a minute, subtle shift. Less shouting, more conversing.

          He still harboured a deep grudge against the man,  piqued that this man was still infiltrating his relationship with Hawke.  On that seemingly nothing had changed, but it felt like it was lancing the toxic feeling just as much as it chafed at the thorn in his heart.

 

          It all seemed to come crashing down about his ears when a letter arrived for him. Varania had finally replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun Dun DUUUUUN
> 
>  
> 
> I'm an idiot, I know.
> 
> Danarius may or may not be in the next chapter. 
> 
> One thing at a time I suppose.
> 
> At least they're talking...kinda... well at least Fenris hasn't tried to phase his hand through Anders' chest. That's the main thing.... :)
> 
>  
> 
> Pounce: A fine sand or powder used to dry wet ink. While blotting paper could be used, pounce is generally cheaper and easier to find.
> 
> He might have to write a manifesto, but I doubt Justice would allow extra expenditure on costly blotting paper.


	8. Sanctuary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slightly longer, and I feel better about this one. I hated that last chapter, but I couldn't beat it into submission...so here we stand.
> 
> I update this so quickly because I fear losing my will to write. I know the updates are sporadic, I write when I should be sleeping, because I need to get it down lest I forget it.

His nose itched, the perfume of the heavy incense was cloying and very nearly nauseating. A quick swipe of a hand before it fell back to interlace with his other, head bowed and eyes closed as he knelt on the prie-dieu. His ears twitched as he listened closely to the Chant echoing in the grand expanse of the Chantry. Lilting voices calling out stanzas and the Assembly echoing it back in reverent tones. He had nearly turned around when he’d opened the door to the Vestibule and seen that Mass had been called and the literal crush of people had spread out before him. But he had come here for guidance, finally admitting to himself that perhaps he would have to find a new way to handle the emotional turmoil he had found himself mired in.

It had been a bitter pill to swallow, but he was coming to terms with it.

Varania’s letter had rocked him. Sheer disbelief had been evident in the beginning paragraphs of the letter. But he had clung to hope that in time perhaps she would believe him fully, perhaps he would be brave enough to suggest a visit. A chiming bell went off, and he opened his eyes and moved to settle back into the pew.

“ _Eyes sorrow-blinded, in Darkness unbroken!_ ”

As full as the Chantry was, he had managed to find a mostly empty spot, far enough away from the dirty looks of the Tonne but close enough that he could listen to the liturgy clearly.

“ _There ‘pon the Mountain, a voice answer My Call,”_

Grand Cleric Elthina was performing the Chant today. Her strong voice echoing throughout the Sanctuary, words measured and even. Behind her stood Sebastian, face alit with a joyous piety that Fenris envied.

“ _Heart that is broken, beats still unceasing –“_

His ears twitched as he pondered that verse, listening closely as the masses recited the line back. He had heard snippets of the Chant before. Hawke, while not overly religious, still said Grace before meals and attended the bigger Feastday celebrations. But this particular stave was new to him. He closed his eyes and waited for the Chant to continue.

“ _An Ocean of Sorrow does nobody drown._ ”

He sucked in a breath, heart beating fervently in his chest. Mouthing the lines, ingraining it to memory.

“ _You have forgotten, Spear-Maid of Alamarr –“_

The Assembly was growing louder, no longer waiting for Elthina to lead them. A crashing of voices that lifted and harmonized, the sound echoing in the vaulted ceiling. Cries of joy, pleas of the lost, the murmurs of the lonely, all twining into a litany of praise to the Maker and His Bride.

          “ _Within My Creation, None are Alone!_ ”

 

          His own voice called out, lost amidst the booming echo, forlorn and longing desperately to be found worthy among the crush of the faithful.

 

***

 

          He stayed long after the Mass had ended, returning once more to the prie-dieu. Hands clasped tightly, forehead resting on his laced fingers. Tears dripped from the end of his nose, and he couldn’t breathe out of his left nostril. But he ignored it in favor of clinging to the Presence he felt in his heart.

          He was not, as a generality, a person to believe in coincidence. He had no sudden and foolish notion that the Maker had placed him here for the exact purpose to hear the Chant. He still doubted that the Deity even cared at all for him.

          He had been a slave for as long as he could remember, and likely since birth. Fenris had endured agony the likes of which few would ever know, abuses that still colored his daily life. A benevolent God, a Just Divine Being, that was what the Chantry taught.

         Where had that God been when he had been at Danarius’ mercies (such as they were), when he had called out for help and wept when none had come, where had the Maker been when he had pondered suicide, where had He been when he had been the lowest of low? He had seen no evidence of Him. And he was leery.

         But kneeling here, the soft gaze of Andraste bearing down on his burdened shoulders, he could feel _something_. And it soothed the ragged edges of his soul, so he knelt there clinging to it. As if it could piece him back together again.

          He felt a shift behind him and he tensed. When it didn’t move on he slowly opened his eyes and sat backwards looking over his shoulder. Sebastian sat on the pew behind him, arms propped on his knees and head cocked as he looked at Fenris curiously.

          “Are you alright?” He inquired, voice soft. As if he might startle Fenris. He started to grimace at the man, but stopped. This was as good a start as any, he supposed.

          “No.” Voice graveled with emotion. His ears pinked as he contemplated his willingness to continue.

          Sebastian waited him out patiently, blue eyes wide and searching. The Elf stood slowly, hands smoothing out the wrinkles in his tunic as he gathered the courage to speak.

          “Brother…I wish to make a confession.”

 

 

***

 

Fenris followed Sebastian through the halls of the Sanctuary, head bowed and feet silent. Sebastian stopped at a set of heavy wooden doors and opened them quietly, gesturing to Fenris to enter. The room beyond was austere in fashion, windowless and lit only by massive tapers that barely illuminated the room. Two chairs stood back to back, and with another gesture he sat in the closest one and waited for Sebastian to close the doors with a barely audible click.

          Sitting he was eye level with a small altar adorned with smaller votives, flames dancing merrily. A golden statuette of Andraste, face alit with eyes looking towards the Heavens, arms outstretched as if to embrace a lover. Here the incense was less pungent, the aroma more pleasing to his sensitive nose.

          He felt the Brother settle behind him and he waited for the man to speak.

          “Here in the Tabernacle of Andraste you sit before the Sacred Ashes of The Bride to confess your sins. As you are untaught I will assist you in your first confession. In the name of The Maker, His Bride, and His Will, you may confess the sins of your soul.”

          Fenris swallowed, a lump developing in his throat as he struggled for words. This was an unknown and he was unsure how to properly word what he wanted to say.

          “Child of the Maker, speak freely and candidly. There is no right way to lay your burdens at the Feet of the Maker and His Bride.”

          Feeling slightly more at ease he opened his mouth, “My sins are many, Brother. I have murdered innocents, delighted in murdering countless others. I have been selfish, greedy. I have stolen and been led astray by the gluttony of the flesh. Deceitful and angry, I have hurt those that I consider friends.” He kept his eyes on Andraste, blinking as his vision blurred with tears, feeling as though the words were cleansing his soul.

          “I am unable to word the countless other offenses I have made unto the Maker, known or unknown.” He finished. His hands clenching in his trousers, pointed tips gouging in the fabric nearly to the point of puncturing them.

          “The Maker and His Bride have heard your confession, and to truly pardon your sins penance must be made. Atonement for trespassing against the Will of the Maker.”

          Fear filled Fenris as images of punishments gone by flitted through his mind. As if sensing that his words had disturbed the Elf, Sebastian spoke again in a calming tone.

          “Peace Fenris. Your penance is to strive to grow in your new found faith. Specifically, I would request that you start with the Canticle of Shartan, as well as Trials 1:1 through 1:16. You may wish to follow that up with Trials 5:1 and Trials 15:1. It may prove cathartic, to know the Maker, to allow him to fill your Heart and Soul.”

          “Yes Brother,” He faltered, head leaned back to look upon the statuette and felt for once in a very long time at peace.

 

***

 

          They had exited the Tabernacle and moved to the Courtyard just beyond the Chantry, the fall of evening shadowing the stone terrace. Sitting on the benches underneath the shade of a large sycamore, they had talked a while in companionable manner. Fenris had tried to apologize for his flippant attitude towards the man, but Sebastian would hear none of it.

          “Forgiven, forgotten. I shouldn’t have pushed you so, and Maker only knows, maybe you’ll gain the courage to be so forthright with Hawke. He deserves to know Fenris. He may be fool hardy and quite unobservant but he loves you dearly. And he would be devastated if it came from anyone but you how poorly you were, and how you feel even now.”

          Perhaps it was unwise, unfair, to burden his friend with all of his troubles. But tonight was the night for throwing inhibition to the wind it seemed.

          “I find myself on the verge sometimes, the words caught in my throat. As if they physically choke me every time I try to talk to him. I know I do him a great disservice in not confiding in him, but it…frightens me. That he has such a strong hold on me notwithstanding, but that I could hurt him deeply with my fears.” Fenris swallowed hard, “He doesn’t deserve the speculation, regardless of his murmurings. They’re dreams only, figments of his overactive imagination. He hasn’t been unfaithful, and I shouldn’t be so worried. It shouldn’t hurt so deeply. I know I am guilty of being redundant, but I feel now as I did when I first spoke to you of this.”

          His fingers curled in a thread that had slipped loose of his tunic and wound it around his gauntleted digits. He plucked at it, ears burning in shame as he bared yet more of his soul.

          Sebastian had only sighed, arms crossing in front of his chest, head bowing forward. Defeated but for the moment.

          “I can understand that I suppose. It is not, and has never been my intention to cause you duress. And I realize now that perhaps my actions though done with good will may have stifled any progress you might have made left alone.” He looked to the Elf, a frown tugging on his lips. “However, I cannot agree with the actions you made regarding your own health. That was concerning, no that is not adequate. I was frightened Fenris. You were wasting away in front of me, hurting yourself and it felt like you were careening toward your own destruction.”

          Fenris bit his lip, his shoulders slumping in shame and waited for Sebastian to continue.

          “You asked me to remain idle, to sit back and watch as you tortured yourself. I couldn’t, and I won’t, should it happen again. If the darkness of your mind comes again, Fenris, I beg of you. Talk to me, let me help. Please.” The man looked at him, blue eyes burning into his green. “I will be your lever to lift the weight of the World, a fulcrum, what have you. Maker, this shouldn’t be so difficult to say. I care for you, you are a close friend. The loss of you would be devastating to me.”

          Emotion swelled in his chest, and he choked on it. Shoulders shaking as he fought to quell it. He would not cry again, he had leaked enough for one day. Instead he jutted his chin, and nodded at the man’s words.

          “If it comes, you will be the first to hear of it. I swear it.” His tongue thick and words fluctuating oddly as he fought to choke it out.

          “Look at the pair of us, Maker.” Sebastian chuckled lowly, hand rubbing over his face and flicking back a strand of hair and moving to stand. “I have duties that I need to accomplish before the ninth bell, and here we are whispering promises to each other like children.” The humor falling flat, emotions too raw for them to jibe at each other as they would normally.

          “And I should probably check in with Hawke, that man has a penchant for trouble if I do not curtail it. You’ll be attending Wicked Grace later, yes?” He asked, also standing and stretching.

          “A terrible idea, no doubt, but yes I will be in attendance.” Sebastian sighed, “Until tonight then, Maker’s Peace with you Fenris.”

          The Elf smiled, “And also with you, Sebastian.”

 

***

 

          Garrett had indeed gotten into trouble while he’d been away. The man had a single minded ability to draw out the worst that Kirkwall had to offer. Not that Hawke seemed to mind much. No the man seemed to revel in serving out bloody justices against Bandits, Blood Mages and other such undesirables. The man was regaling him of just how he had managed to smash an entire unit of Bandits with his Magic on the way into Lowtown on their way to Wicked Grace night. He chuckled as Garrett mimed the expressions of the unwitting vagabonds as they had hit walls and been flung about.

          Hawke was delighted to see his Elf smiling so openly, his hand intertwined with his own as he pulled Fenris along. His thunderous voice dropping and rising with his excitement in the retelling. They made their way through the Tavern, many a patron raising their glass and yelling ‘Hawke!’ as they passed. Fenris grinned at the sheepish expression Garrett had, briefly looking back to Corff and signaling for drinks before moving on to Varric’s suite.

          They were the last to arrive, moving quickly to take their seats as Varric continued to shuffle. Merrill and Isabela were apparently telling the same story to their captive audiences, same as Hawke had told him on the trip from Hightown. He leaned against Garrett’s thick arm, moving only to accept a mug of ale before lazing back against it. He grew bored with hearing the story yet again, and turned instead to strike up conversation with Sebastian.

They had just been dealt in when a loud resounding knock had interrupted their game. Merrill had been closest to the door and had stood and bounced to the door to let in the intruder.

Bodhan’s red sweating face had come into view and Hawke was up in a moment, concern writ across his face. He’d been waved back down, as Merrill had offered the dwarf a drink as he caught his breath. After he had downed a third of the proffered cup he had turned back to Hawke and dug into his doublet looking for something.

          “My deepest apologies, Messeri! A letter arrived just after you left, the messenger said that it was of utmost importance that you read it immediately! He did not say who it was from.” Hawke’s manservant puffed out, still winded from his errand. Hawke took the letter and slit it open with a knife proffered from Isabela, who had pulled Merrill back into her lap and was watching the proceedings with a concerned eye.

          “It’s from Orsino!” He had exclaimed, after he had finished reading.

          “The First Enchanter?” Anders had asked, hand reaching for the parchment and scanning the contents. “He’s asking for you at this hour?”

          Fenris’ lip curled at the mention of the Gallow Circle’s Elvhen leader. He disliked him from the moment he had met him, he lacked the will to govern his charges as he should and it had angered him.

          Seeing the look on Fenris’ face Garrett had moved to gather his Staff leaning in the corner with the group’s trove of weapons. He motioned to Varric, who had pulled Bianca from her perch, and scanned his group.

          Anders and Merrill had also been chosen, Isabela looking quite put out when the Dalish Blood Mage had skipped over to the corner to collect her things, Anders doing the same in a more sedate manner. Hawke had moved back to Fenris’ side and dropped a quick kiss to his lips with the promise to be home as soon as possible. Before moving to herd his chosen companions out the door and on their way to the Gallows. Bodhan leaving soon after them, bidding them all a good night.

          Down four players effectively ended their game night and Fenris and Sebastian had departed not long after, walking in companionable silence until reaching Hightown. Sebastian had bid him good night before making his way back to the Chantry, and he turning to make his way to the Estate.

          He never saw the grenade being thrown, only aware once it had exploded and released the gas that he was under attack. Still lacking stamina it had been a short fight, the gas noxious and cloying. His mind blurring before he succumbed to it.

 

          The clanking of heavy armor and whisper of robes the last thing he heard before the darkness swallowed him whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I based quite a bit of the Religious aspect off of Catholic practices.  
> I am not particularly religious, but I have experienced the feeling that Fenris has in this chapter.  
> The wanting to believe that maybe there is a God out there, and that maybe just maybe he cares about me.
> 
> I actually read a good portion of the Chant of Light, to include the Canticle of Shartan, and the Trials that Sebastian mentions. If you have the time, I would suggest reading it, lengthy but provides excellent insight.
> 
> Messeri: An obsolete plural form of Messere.
> 
> Tabernacle: Room and Altar where they keep holy relics and the Body of Christ (In Catholicism at least..)
> 
> Prie-Dieu: French for Pray to God, it's the fancy little bench things that you kneel on to pray at church. I figured that since Orlais was a portrayal of France (And the stronghold of the Chantry), that they'd probably have these.
> 
>  Stave: A stanza or verse in a poem.
> 
>  
> 
> There was a play on words in this, regarding a certain quest. I think I'm hilarious...>>;;;;;;;
> 
> Poor Fen, just can't catch a break can he....whoops... <3


	9. Lethendralis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit this is a doozy. And very much longer than previous chapters.
> 
> It took over seven hours for me to write this. I am dead. And going to bed. I'll look for errors later.
> 
> **8.11.16. This chapter has been somewhat revised and heavily edited. There is a great deal that I added, just fyi.**

          The smell of smoke and the tantalizing scent of bread baking woke him. Light streaming from the open flaps of the pup tent, the sounds of a camp just waking reaching his ears. Children were yelling and women were calling out to them, beckoning them to help with morning chores. It took a minute for him to remember where he was, and just how he had gotten there.

          Seheron. He could hear the crashing of the waves of the Boeric Ocean, taste the tang of salt in the air. He scrubbed at his eyes with his hands, and sitting up as much as the small tent would allow. He remembered massive ships bombarding the City on the Coast. Dreadnaughts of the Qunari, sent from Par Vollen in an attempt to reclaim the Island. Master Danarius’ fury as he had been forced to leave his prized possession behind. He could do no less, to stay behind for a slave would be a damning move. As a Magister, reputation was everything.

          So he had been left behind with the command to stay alive, that His Master would be back to collect him as soon as he possibly could. His stomach roiled at the fury and punishment that would surely follow once he was back in His Master’s grasp. Though no fault of his own, the Magister would surely be enraged to have had to leave behind his investment and body guard all in one. Fenris’ looked down to his arms, the vivid lines of Lyrium pulsating white-blue as his troubled thoughts took all control from him.

          He had moved inward from the docks of Seheron, the cannons of the Dreadnaughts blasting buildings and their incendiary secondary functions setting the dry wood and thatched roofings ablaze. Absolute chaos reigned, the crush of people pushing him about and in the confusion he had fallen underfoot. Crawling with the flow of the sea of bodies he fought to climb to his feet. The smell of burning flesh, the screaming of the wounded, the wails of the terrorized masses ignited his own terror and his Lyrium had flared with his emotions. Moving through bodies that were in his path he ghosted through the throng. The loud booming of cannons, the snapping of foundations and wooden beams. He watched as a tower collapsed, debris splintering and raining down on horde. Fenris heaved in painful breaths as his feet slapped down on rough cobbled roads, trying desperately to escape both the city and the deluge of bodies he was starting to outstrip. The City of Seheron resounded with the sound of terror, dust and smuts choking the crowds as they ran. Children wailed for their mothers and people trampled their neighbors in their bid to escape.

          The great gates of Seheron mercifully came into sight and he ran full tilt for them, Lyrium still ignited allowing him to phase through those in front of him. Beyond the gates he could see the lowlands beyond and in the far distance the outcropping of the Jungles.

 

          Even now he could still feel the touch of ash on his skin, the scent of burning dead in his nose, the terrible wailing of the citizens. A hand on his shoulder startled him and he looked up to see a small waif of a boy peering down at him with concern.

          “Ma says I’s to bring you to breakfast. The Fog Dancer’s called for you when you’ve eaten.” The child was brazenly familiar with him, pulling on his hands and helping collect his cuirass and leggings. No shame to be found as he helped the Tevinter Slave dress. He gaped openly at the markings that adorned his skin, fingers trailing an arm in awe.

          A woman called to him from just beyond the tent, and the child had pulled yet again on his hands and led him from the tent. The woman like her child was slight in build, dressed in a simple cotton shift that was patched within an inch of its life. A riot of auburn curls held by a scrap of leather framing her darkly bronzed face which was smudged with flour from baking. Her green eyes narrowed slightly as she saw her son pulling the Elf behind him, chattering away incessantly.

          “Davi! You leave the poor man to his thoughts. He’s heard quite enough of your chatter, here go fetch some water to boil. And be quick about it if you want to get your fair share of bread, menino.” She laughed as he scarpered to collect the bucket and trotted off calling out hellos and good mornings to those he saw on the way to the beach.

          “Mistress, I –,”

          “Ai, Fenris,” She sighed at him before taking his hand in hers and leading him toward her family tent. “I’ve told you, my name is Marcia. I’d like for you to use it, please.” Her Tevene was richly accented and slow, but he appreciated her kindness in trying to communicate with him. He bowed his head at her request and tried to apologize, only for her to sit him down and shush him with a loaf of bread.

 

***

 

          He’d been with Marcia and her traveling band for close to a month now. Fog Warriors they called themselves. They lived in the humid expanse of the Jungles that covered much of Seheron. They had seen the smoke and heard the explosions from the Dreadnaughts and had gone to investigate. He’d been found by some of their scouts and escorted to the Leader and Marcia’s husband, Alosio, as a refugee. He’d been given food and a tent and allowed to stay. A mercy in and of itself. Marcia had been the one to tend his few wounds, and she had mothered him relentlessly, much to his horror and discomfort.

          Davi, her son, was curious about the newcomer and had asked multitudes of questions. He had answered without question. He was a slave, and a freeborn had demanded to know of him.

          The few he’d managed to answer had appalled Marcia when he’d replied honestly and without hesitation. He was a slave, he was in Seheron at the whim of his Master. His Master was a Magister of the Tevinter Imperium. Finding her voice she had managed to persuade Davi to cease his questioning, and Fenris had chanced a look up into the woman’s face. A strange array of emotion had been etched into her pretty features, eyes shimmering as if she was nearly to tears. He had cocked his head in confusion, wondering what had caused that.

          Surely not he, there was nothing upsetting about what he’d said. It was basic facts of his life. Nothing more.

          He’d been pulled into her embrace with more confusion, before she had set about preparing dinner for her family and him. He had tried to be of assistance but she had shooed him off and Davi had taken the opportunity to drag Fenris along to introduce him to his friends. He had been shocked to find that not only were there Elves interspersed with the Humans, but Qunari and a lone Dwarven child. He had watched as the children played, noting that each child was an equal to their peer.

          Perplexed he had haltingly questioned Marcia that night as to what he had seen. Her face was open and honest, if a tad sad when he asked where their slaves were, why the younger Elf children were allowed to play freely with the others. And she had tried to explain, in her broken Tevene exactly who he had been found by.

          “Fenris, we don’t enslave people. Those children are free, and they’re allowed to learn and live as they will. They will never know the bite of chains ‘round their necks, they will never know the pain that you did. We are called Fog Warriors. A loose term nowadays, but the intent is still the same. We owe allegiance to no Ruler, Par Vollen or the Imperium. We govern ourselves, our Fog Dancer leads us as well as Alosio. We travel where we will, we do as we please, we live free. Fenris, you’re part of us if you would wish it, you have a place here. We can always use another Warrior, you would be free.”

          He had looked at her in askance, mind boggled by the thought of no longer being a slave. Of never having to return to Danarius. He had pondered and watched the tightknit community as they passed the days. Hunting and foraging, pitching their tents when they tired. Long had he lain awake at night and wished for the freedoms they had, and here it was, being offered to him on a silver plate.

          And he was terrified of the choice.

 

***

         

          Once he had eaten his fill, Marcia had helped him brush his hair. She had laughingly braided sections of it, pushing it back from his face and restraining it in a leather thong. They had conversed on their way to the Fog Dancer’s tent. Well she had talked, he had chosen to remain quiet and listen to her outline the history of the Fog Warriors.

          A long war with the Qunari had weakened them, and then the Imperium had invaded. Back and forth between the two Nations. But they hadn’t yielded. Their cities had crumbled, their people divided into many clans, but they were still one. A proud nation of people that had withstood its colossal neighbors.

          She briefly explained that Fog Dancers were the Spirit of the People. They recorded the histories and taught their ways to newcomers and the children of their clans. He was being brought before the Dancer to meet her only, there were no tests and he would not be pushed out. They were accepting him wholly and unequivocally.

          “If you would have us,” Marcia had said as they stood before the tent that could hold his future. “We would be your family Fenris. If you wish it.” She had hugged him tightly before gently pushing him into the tent and telling him she’d be by later to take him back to their tents.

         

          His eyes had taken a second to adjust from the light outside to the darkness of the tent. His lyrium flaring just enough that he could make out a figure, one that was facing him and watching him intently. He bowed his head, shoulders caving inwards as he tried to make himself smaller before her gaze.

          A sharp burst of the Fog Warrior’s harsh language and a hand curled around his bicep. He flinched at the unexpected contact, looking to see a young woman by his side. She listened as the Fog Dancer spoke again before turning to him and smiling brightly.

          “Hullo, I’m Melyne. Undene doesn’t speak anything other than Urut. I speak many languages, so I’ll be your translator. She would ask that you look her in the face, she would look upon you.” She moved around the expanse of the tent, after drawing Fenris forward a tad, and opening ceiling flaps to let in the light. He raised his head and looked the woman in the eye, though he wanted nothing more than bow and kneel at her feet. She was an imposing woman, tall and broad shouldered. Austerely coiffed black hair framed a face that was stern and emotionless. Her piercing blue eyes took him in, and he strove to meet her gaze.

          Melyne was back, taking his hand and leading him to sit on the floor mat just before the Dancer. He kept in mind the words that Marcia had said to him, this was not a test. He would not be thrown out.

          Undene finally shifted, a smile forming on her lips as she took in Fenris. She motioned to Melyne voice questioning and waited for her to translate.

          “If you would, she is curious as to your tattoos. She can feel the Lyrium, she wants to know how you came by them.” He could hear the girl’s own curiosity and he cocked his head before beginning to speak.

          Melyne kept up with his as best as she could, the harsh syllables falling from her lips as she narrated his story to the Dancer. She asked several times for him to reiterate something, either due to disbelief in what he said or to gain a clearer view of a word he used.

          He told them of waking up in agony. Of his Master being the first thing he had seen. Of being retrained as a slave, how to use his markings and to protect his Master at all costs. The words flowed smoothly, telling them of his experiences as a slave. Melyne and the Dancer had inhaled in horror at his graphic depictions his punishments, anger lacing Melyne’s words as he had explained the uses of a body slave and the subsequent violations he had endured. Both at his Master’s hands and everyone else that he had been commanded to attend to.

          It took hours for him to regale his life unto the Dancer, and she had listened intently. As his story drew to an end, he felt wrung out, exhausted. When he had finished he had watched as Undene had watched him. Her eyes were wide, searching and her gaze heavy.

          “I give thanks,” Her Tevene was faltering and heavily accented, but she stood and strove to speak again. “For you being here, with us. A blessing, us both perhaps. You are welcome, Warrior.” He bowed his head, a wave of emotion overcoming his ability to speak. A hand was laid upon his head, gentle and soothing. When she spoke again it was the guttural and exacting words of Urut and he waited for Melyne to translate for him.

          “She is saying the Prayer of the Found, you have been found and your family will help guide you.” She said, laying her hand on his shoulder. Fenris had trembled with the thought, both fearful and overjoyed.

 

 

***

 

          There had been a gathering that night, the whole of the community coming to meet him. To hear his story and watch as the Fog Dancer inducted him into their Family. He had stood proudly next to Marci, Davi and Alosio. They had become his foster family, teaching him and showing him their ways. Alosio had clapped him on the back and presented him with a new Great Sword. The blade made of hammered silverite, and the leather wrapped pommel adorned with a single opal that glimmered in the bonfire’s light. He had held it reverently, and raised it to the echoing cries of his new Clan.

 

          Alosio had sat down and talked with him days later, asking him of his skills and where he thought he would be most comfortable. Grey eyes watching his solidly as he dithered with the decision, his whiskered mouth twitching with amusement. He was trained in martial tactics, it was where he knew he excelled. The bear of a man had laughed encouragingly as Fenris had hesitantly asked to be trained with their Warriors. A meaty hand clasping his shoulder and helping him stand before guiding him to their practice grounds.

He was assigned to a small unit of Warrior’s. Spending much of his first few weeks after his joining showing them what he could do with his marking and how much he knew of sword handling. They were visibly impressed with his skills and was soon putting others through their paces as he taught them to move like he did.

          Marcia had gushed over his sword like a proud parent, kissing his cheek gently and pushing another bowl of stew on him. Alosio had helped Fenris tend to his blade, patiently showing him how to use a whetstone to sharpen the edges and wipe the blade down with oil to prevent rusting afterwards. It gave him a sense of pride to take care of his weapon, Danarius had never allowed him to, instead handing the weapon off to a slave to be dealt with after the end of day. He liked caring for the Sword better.

          He was learning to track game, the Clan’s hunters willing to show him how to read the floor of the Jungles to hunt down game for the community. They had laughed the first time he had brought along his sword, teasing him raucously and trying to get him to use a bow. He’d never learned archery and when he moved to take a few testing shots found that his aim was terrible, completely missing the targets over and over. He had merely handed the bow back to its owner and insisted on bringing his sword.

          They had relented, still ribbing at him. He followed them anyway as they hunted. They had stalked a herd of wild boar deep in the sweltering jungle, silently following signed commands before he grew impatient and with a bellow had fallen upon the group with his lyrium blazing and managing to take down a large sow. Phasing his hand through her ribcage he had crushed her heart. Panting he had looked back to his compatriots who had watched him charge in shock, faces now slack in askance at his ability. He had nervously stood still as they processed what he had done. Before the leader of the party, a massive man who went by Orion, had moved forward and stared openly at the dead pig before roaring with laughter. Amused by his tactics and congratulating Fenris on his first kill they had painted his chin and nose with his first blood. The clan had come together that night to roast the pig and hear from the Hunters how Fenris had barreled with a mighty yell to pull down the sow.

 

          Davi still pulled him along for games and fun whenever the chores had been finished and he slowly learned to play the childish games that they played. Melyne joining in whenever she was allowed, laughing brightly as Fenris tried to keep up with the younger children.

          She and Fenris had been spending much of their free time together, he liked listening to her stories of far off lands and countries that he had heard only in passing from other Slaves. She had been born in Orlais to a tailor and his wife who had moved to Seheron not long after she had been born. They had been killed in the war with the Imperium and she had been found by the Fog Warriors, who had been impressed with her ability to learn languages. She had followed their band, never looking back.

           Whenever they recruited a new member she would ask to be taught their tongue so she could expand her knowledge. She spoke common tongue, Tevene, Orlesian and Urut fluently, and Elvhen and Anders conversationally. Melyne had taught many of the Clan the Common tongue and some Tevene. Undene had taken her on as an apprentice to follow in her footsteps as a Fog Dancer, seeing her ability to speak so many different languages as a way to spread their history.

          He had been cleaning his Sword after a long day of practice when the girl had pranced over to him, long honey blonde hair flowing out behind her, a quiet smile gracing her heart shaped face as she moved to talk with him. He had asked her questions about her life, wanting to know more about life beyond Seheron and the Imperium, and she had spun stories of the Dalish Elves that lived in the wilds of Thedas, of hedge witches in the Kocari Wilds. He was utterly entranced, hand slowing with its cleaning until it finally stopped, hanging on her every word. She told of daring battles and Kings in shining armor, High Dragons and Dwarven cities that delved down below the mountains.

          Marcia had found them like that sometime later, when she had called out to him for supper to no response. She listened for a time before interrupting the girl as she took a breath.

          “Fenris, when you’re done here it’s time for evening meal. Davi wants to show you some creature he’s caught I think.” She smiled openly as Fenris stood and shouldered his blade turning to bid Melyne good night before striding after Marcia.

          “Hey!” She called out from behind him, “I’ve been meaning to ask, all the boys name their new weapons, what have you named yours?”

          Fenris contemplated that for a moment, “I haven’t given it thought, maybe tomorrow we can find something that fits?” She nodded happily before saying good night and making her way back to Undene’s tent. He had turned to see Marcia watching him with a soft smile and he cocked his head at her in questioning but she merely shook her head and ushered him in to eat.

 

***

 

          “It has to be something strong. No, you can’t just name it Sword you ninny.” Melyne had books strewn around her, leafing through a book of tall tales and fables. Fenris leaned against a tent stake, somewhat bored with looking for a name in something he couldn’t understand.

          “I fail to see why it has to have a name, it’s a weapon. Not a person.” He drawled, finger rubbing against the leather of the pommel, the entirety of the blade was longer than he was tall and he prided himself in being able to lift and wield it where some of the older men could not.

          “All the swords in the stories have names, it’s just something you do. Hopeless, nothing good is standing out to me.” She closed a book and set it in a pile beside her. “We could come up with a Tevene word, or Qunlat…hmmm Heart Slayer?” She queried, face scrunched with thought.

          “No, and I’d prefer to not use those languages. This sword will be used to defend my family, to honor their sacrifices. Those would profane it.” He said shaking his head, oil cloth in hand and rubbing it rhythmically down the blade.

          “Huh…maybe Elvhen?” She shuffled through the books again before pulling a new one out. “This is by some stuffy Chantry Brother, he studied the Dalish and managed to write down some of their language. We could use that?”

          Thinking it over as he worked oil into the silverite he nodded in agreement. The Dalish sounded like a strong, bold people from the way Melyne told the stories. Much like his Clan. He huffed out a breath in weary humor as Melyne began spouting out possible names.

          It was well into the evening before they had finally come to a decision. While not strictly Dalish, it parsed bits of words together to make a new one. One that he felt could be applied to his Sword accurately. One he felt pride in.

          He had thanked Melyne for her efforts, time and company before heading out of the tent and beelining for Marcia’s. He had found the woman standing over a pit of flame working on dinner. She had smiled at his excitement and asked his to help her with the meal, saying that Alosio would want to hear his news as well and that he should save it for when the man returned for the evening meal. He had barely managed to keep it to himself until the entire family was ensconced in the tent and breaking bread.

          He reached behind himself and carefully pulled his Great Sword into his lap, eyes dancing with excitement as he spilled his news.

          This is Lethendralis,” He had said before explaining the word, “ It’s from three different words, Lethen meaning Family, Dra meaning Infinite, and Lis meaning Sacrifice. We put it all together and made it a new word to mean the infinite sacrifices made for family.” He looked around the tent, face split wide with pride.

          Marcia had merely patted his arm with a kind smile, Alosio was busy mulling over the word before he nodding approvingly. Davi for his part had taken advantage of the adult’s distraction and had snuck the last of the bread, mouth bulging with it as he tried to chew. Fenris had laughed, heart light and feeling for the first time that maybe he was finally part of a family.

 

***

 

          In his eighth month with the clan they had moved on from Seheron, packing up their caravans and moving in a long line through the Jungle. Scouts had brought back news of ships on the horizon and they were wary of it. It might very well be Par Vollen Dreadnaughts come to bombard the City once again in the Qunari’s unending war against the Imperium. So they had uprooted and traveled upon well-worn paths that led through the tropical forest.

          Marcia had loaded him up into their wagon, their strong horses pulling the creaking cart as she passed the time describing where they were going. Much of Seheron was tropical vegetation, the Jungle reclaiming much of the Cities that had been built by the Fog Warriors. They were to make their way up the coast to the outskirts of Enekari. There was a greater presence of For Warriors there and they could band together if the Qunari came looking. He whiled away the hours they spent traveling with either Davi or Melyne, learning how to play card games and gaining and losing nuts and shiny rocks to both of them before he managed to figure out the rules and slowly his pile of nuts and rocks grew larger.

          It would be five long exhausting weeks of travel, as they moved as quickly as they dared. Too used to having both Qunari and the Imperium on the offensive and restricting their movements. They made camp at night and scouted the area thoroughly. The hunters stayed closer to camp, hunting what they could and foraging the rest. Fenris to his displeasure was kept with the children, he had argued with Marcia about it she had just frowned at him evenly and he had been properly cowed.

          Alosio was careful with his Clan, keeping scouts constantly moving between the camp and whatever the route forward held. News from the coast had come with word of that ships had docked in Seheron and were not, in fact, Dreadnaughts. The Fog Dancer and Alosio had met and discussed their options, finally deciding that they had already begun their march to Enekari, they would continue to do so. Albeit at a much less grueling pace.

         

***

 

                   They had come across a large pool of water and stopped for the night, rejoicing in the chance to bathe for the first time in weeks. Fenris had followed Davi who had let out a whoop of laughter and raced for the bank and dove in. He had sighed at the cool liquid washing away the sweat and dust layered upon his skin, lathering up with cake of soap and letting the water flow rinse him clean. Davi began splashing in the shallows and it had devolved from there. Marcia coming upon them shoving walls of water at each other and scolding them for losing her soap cake in the process, tongue in cheek as she tried to keep from smiling at their contrite expressions. She rounded them up and bustled them into their tent, handing out hard tack and a bowl of stew. Watching as Fenris tried to stifle a yawn before herding her boys off to bed, kissing their foreheads and bidding them goodnight. Settling into her own pallet on the other side of the tent with Alosio and quickly slipping into sleep.

 

          Fenris woke to the sounds of scouts calling out warnings and was up pulling his cuirass and gauntlets on in a moment, strapping Lethendralis to his back before hurrying out of the tent. The camp was lit with torches as the Clan woke to the call, men hurriedly dressed and grabbed weapons, rushing to where the scouts were calling out.

          Alosio came into view as Fenris gathered with the Fog Warriors, the burly man barking orders and organizing him men. Fenris’ ears and eyes alert to find the reason for the alarm. He could make out the heavy thunder of hooves not far beyond the camp, and he strained to make out who it was.

          “Ho there! Name yourself, strangers!” Alosio called out, deep voice rumbling, hand gripping the pommel of his sword still strapped to his waist. Fenris couldn’t hear the reply and he shoved his way through the crowd to get a better look, only to stop short in horror as he saw the first foot soldier. He was dressed in black leathers, helmet pulled low and back turned to Fenris. But he could make out the emblem emblazoned on his shield. The stamp of Danarius, Magister of The Tevinter Imperium. He wheeled about in fear, looking to where Alosio stood, toe to toe with…

          His mouth went dry as he took in the haughty, bored expression. The curl of a smirk and the cold dead eyes that swept the assemblage before him. His Master had come to reclaim him.

          He should hide, he should, he should…Fenris’ mind was a chaotic mess of half formed thoughts at the sight of his Master. His terror was palpable and those around him looked at him in question before looking back to where Alosio stood, facing down the Magister, unaware of the danger he faced in doing so.

          “Word has it, you’re harbouring an escaped slave. I will pay you handsomely for his return.” The saccharine tone that Danarius used when dealing with lesser personage reached his ears and he fought not to vomit. His body was numb with shock and terrible fear, choking him. He couldn’t breathe.

          “We don’t harbor slaves, friend. You’d be better off looking elsewhere.” The hard tones of Alosio reached him and he watched as Danarius drew up to his full height and raised a hand and an archer drew his bow back pointing it at Alosio’s heart. His own stuttering in fear, body going cold as he watched Alosio ignore the movement, face enraged and fist tightening on his sword.

          “I know he’s here, and you will return him. Even if I have to pluck him from the entire camp’s dead bodies.” Fenris watched in horror as Alosio glared right back at the Magister. He shuffled, pushing at the people around him. He had to get to Danarius, he had to…do _something._

          He was grabbed about his middle and he looked back to see Orion holding him, he fought with the man. Struggling to get loose, teeth gnashing in frustration, gauntleted fingertips scratching at bared flesh.

          “Dunnae interfere lad, we ain’t gonna give you back to that feckin’ bastard. Just keep quiet and let Alosio hand- gah!” Fenris had head-butted the man get him to let him go, a spray of blood and a garbled curse as he slid from Orion’s grasp. In his panic his markings flared brightly, a beacon in the dark. Hands grasped at his arms, trying to push his back and out of sight.

          Danarius locked on the sudden light, and lookin up to see Fenris being held by others of the group. His eyes narrowed and he barked a command to Fenris, who went deathly still. Lyrium lines glowed brightly as he phased through those holding him. Their shocked and dismayed cries echoing in his ears as he moved to Danarius’ side. His demeanor shrank the closer he got, till he was on his hands and knees crawling in the mud to kiss at his Master’s feet.

          “You lied to me,” Danarius had simpered, kicking at the elf at his feet, delighting in the pained cry that had rung out. He reached down and gripped at the white hair of his slave and pulled him to his feet.

          Fenris stood, wincing at the pressure in his head. Lip split and bleeding down his chin, his eyes to the ground. His Master was displeased, and he knew his punishment would be all the more harsh if he disobeyed further. The Fog Warriors yelled out abuses, and threats. Demanding his release. He remained stoic and bowed at Danarius’ side.

          “He isn’t a slave, he is one of the People and you will return him to us!” Alosio had yelled, face purpling with rage at the sight of his foster sons treatment.

          “He is and he is mine, isn’t that right Little Wolf?” The Magister chuckled, his hand had dropped to caress the slave’s face. Fenris recoiled slightly at the unwelcome touch only to feel the bite of nails in his throat in response. He bared his throat further, whining and contrite.

          “Yes, Master.” The words were corrosive and foul, and burned his mouth as he tried to keep the tears from falling. He was foolish to think he could outrun his Master, a stupid, stupid slave. Master had promised to find him, he should not have made Master have to look for him.

          “Be a good dog, and get rid of these pests. I tire of their noise.” He said, placing a hand on Fenris’ neck. He could feel the Magic pulsating and he cried out at the lancing of pain that echoed throughout the lines of his body. His limbs moving seemingly of their own accord as he approached the Fog Warriors.

          Tears streaming down his cheeks as he pulled Lethendralis from his back, and raised it. Lyrium flaring as he feinted and swung the Sword. They had fallen back as he swung, faces a mixture of shock and fear as he turned on them. Hands clawed at his body, trying to stop him, to restrain him. He phased through them, feinting and plunging the tip of the sword into a body. Eyes lifting to see the stunned expression on Orion’s bloodied face. He moaned at the pain in his heart as he saw the man drop to his knees, eyes dulling as he fell. He turned again and swiped out, catching a young man he’d been training not two days prior.

          Great choking sobs wailed from his mouth as he systematically felled each of his unit, they never fought back. Intent only on restraining him, cries of his name echoing as if shouted in a long corridor. Alosio had come forward, sword in hand. The big man had called to him, trying to talk him down. He never fully attacked Fenris, begging him to drop the Sword and allow them to help him.

          “You aren’t a Slave, Fenris. Just drop Lethendralis, come on son. We won’t allow the bastard to take you away, please.” He had coaxed and prodded and cursed all the while parrying and blocking Fenris’ crazed attack. He saw an opening and feinted before charging the man. His hand pushing through his chest and he screamed as he had crushed the man’s heart in his hand. Watched as his foster father’s blood had gushed from the wound and dripped from his fingers.

          He made his way through the camp, carving a bloody swathe as he felled every man, woman and child. The little ones crying out to him as he ran them through, his heart clenching with the unending pain as he butchered his Clan.        

          No one was left alive. He followed as Undene had tried to usher others to safety and had phased a hand through her chest, keening as he watched the light leave her eyes.

           Melyne had watched as he gently laid the Fog Dancer down, whimpering as he turned towards her. She had begged him to stop, to regain himself, to fight. He wrapped a hand around her throat and squeezed. Her eyes bulging as he cut off her breathing, slowly brining his blade to her throat before slashing her throat. He held her as she bled out, brushing through her honey hair and voice cracking as he wailed.

          Movement had him standing once again as he watched Marcia back away from him, a small dagger out and Davi pushed behind her. Tears ran in rivulets down her face, hand shaking as she staggered away from him, away from the bloodied corpses of her Clan. She turned and pulling Davi into her arms she bolted from the camp. Davi watching him over her shoulder as she ran, eyes blank and shell shocked.

          He tracked her in the lush vegetation, eventually catching up to her as she attempted to cross the rill they had bathed in earlier.  He had jumped in after her, watching as she pushed Davi away from her and turned to face him.

          “Why Fenris?” She screamed, agony etched in her face and he had stopped momentarily.

          “RUN, Menino. Davi! RUN!” She shrieked at the frozen child, who had stood stock still as Fenris approached his mother. She shoved at him again and he stumbled in the hip deep water before whirling and sprinting away. Her distraction allowed him to reach her, hand sliding up to curl around her head. Fresh tears flowing down his face as he watched her shiver in his hold, her hand came up to plunge the dagger in his chest. The hand that had been touching her flying up and grasping at her wrist, he squeezed tightly with his Lyrium strength and she screamed as her bones fractured.

          “Why Fenris, why,” She moaned, her eyes searching his as he phased his hand again and pushed it into her chest wrapping his taloned fingers around her heart.

          “Because he commanded it, because I am nothing but a slave. A monster. A weapon.” A quick squeeze, a gurgle of pain and she had slumped against him, and he howled with the agony that was battering at his own heart.

          He let go of her and watched as the current carried her away before moving to exit the pool. Eyes scanning the leafy expanse of the jungle before striding back into the undergrowth. Sharp eyes catching the trail he was looking for.

          Davi hadn’t managed to get far, feet stumbling over vines and rocks. The boy heard him coming and screamed in fear, tripping over a root and watching as Fenris raised his blade.

          Danarius and his soldiers found him sometime later, cradling the broken body of a child in his arms. Crooning softly and petting at blood soaked hair. The child’s chest had been torn open by the blade that was resting at the Slave’s feet, gore and blood slowly drying on the metal. His little wolf’s eyes were wide and unseeing, body coiled tight. He rocked the corpse in a wild, manic manner and he smirked at the sight.

          Danarius tired of watching his slave and whistled harshly to gain his attention. Mad eyes had raised to meet his own and he stepped back unconsciously as the elf had stood. The boy’s body crumpling at his feet. Sword in hand and the effects of the magic beginning to wear off as the blood fever waned.

          “Come slave we are going home.” He had snapped his fingers and started to move away from the copse of trees, turning only when he hadn’t heard Fenris follow.

          The Elf was looking at his sword in his hands, running his fingers through the streaked blood and vicera. He had snapped his fingers again, and watched as the Slave straightened, looking him dead in the eye and snarling ferociously. A boldness he had never seen in Fenris before overtook his posture and he raised himself to his full height.

          “I am your Slave no longer!” He had cried, fists clenched tightly.

 

          And with that he turned tail and disappeared into the Jungle, running from the utter destruction he had been forced to call down up on his Clan.

 

***

 

          His eyes flew open and he turned to his side and voided his stomach contents on the sand he was laid upon. Confusion clouded his mind as he tried to quell his vomiting. A blast of magic helped him gain a hold on his stomach and he looked up, fully expecting to see the hated visage of his former Master. He was shocked to find instead, the worried face of Garrett Hawke. His eyes sliding closed in exhaustion and he faded back into the darkness.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooooh boy. Where I was going with this will become clear in the next chapter, I promise. Maker...
> 
> Marcia, Davi, Alosio, Undene, Melyne, Orion are all oc. Obvs... I love Davi he grew on me in the seven hours it took to write this... Fog Dancer is a real thing, they're like...a Shaman to the Fog Warriors.
> 
>  It is now time for sleep. e_e;;;
> 
> *Edit: I styled Alosio, Davi, and Marcia after the Portuguese. Hence her use of Menino (little boy). Melyne is French for Honey, after her honey hair. Lame...I know. Orion is Greek for Hunter. Lame. Again. I know.
> 
> Undene is Afrikkan I believe for Spirit. Urut is the first thing that came to my head that could sound like it was a language. Woohoo. 
> 
> There is only one codex entry for the Fog Warriors, ergo I made up just about everything about them. Hopefully it flows nicely and doesn't make any one character out to be a glaring error. *cough* Mary Sue *cough*


	10. Revenge. Revenge is Best Served Cold.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please be advised, the last chapter (Lethendralis) has been heavily revised and added to. May I humbly suggest you check it out before proceeding?
> 
>  
> 
> Hawke's POV. Whuuuut? 
> 
> Enjoy? Maybe...

          Garrett Hawke was not a man that was scared easily. He had faced down Darkspawn with glee, slain Abominations and Demons laughing all the while, and on an especially invigorating trip to the Bone Pit, a High Dragon. So no, fear was not an emotion he was often afflicted with.

          He quickly cornered the Templar Knight Keran in the docks of Lowtown and worked the truth from the man he had once saved from a coven of blood mages. The Templar had been more than happy to give him all the information he knew.

          “Last I heard they captured some Tevinter Elf out of Hightown, took four of them to subdue him.” The comment had been blithely spoken, the man likely unaware of just how much the statement had worried him. He had let the Knight pass, mind furiously working over the conversation.

          Standing in that warehouse, mulling over what he had learned from Keran filled his heart with panic. A sweep of bitter fear flooding every space of his mind, hands clenching on themselves as he struggled to keep from smashing everything in sight. His magic fluctuated with the strain, crackling bolts of lightning dancing around his person in time with the pounding of his heart.

          They had Fenris.

          He had turned to his companions, and for once in his life had drawn a blank as to what to say. Varric had seen his hesitation and had led their band from the warehouse and through the streets. From what he’d gathered from Orsino and Keran, there was a secret collective of Mages and Templars meeting all throughout Kirkwall. Something that was furthering Meredith’s rage and paranoia, a dangerous game to be sure.

          They moved through Lowtown, moving quickly. Hawke and his companions uncommonly quiet. Varric strode hastily at his side, face a grim line of tension. Anders and Merrill bringing up the rear, climbing the many steps to Hightown and through the Market.

          Keran had marked on their map where they would find the contingent Thrask was leading. They would make it before the afternoon if they hurried. He could feel exhaustion sapping at his strength, they had been up all night meeting first with Orsino before being instructed to go to Hightown to spy on a meeting of Mages and Templars. A torn note on the cooling corpse of a Templar had led them to the warehouse, to Keran. He knew his companions would be tired, but looking at their determined expression he felt comfortable in setting out with them at his back.

          They had Fenris, and he’d be damned if he let them keep him hostage one second longer than needed.

 

***

 

          The sun was just beginning to crest high above the Waking Sea as they jogged down the Coast’s cliffs. Hawke looking for signs of their targets, breath coming in heavy pants as he trembled with emotion. Varric was pacing just beyond him, looking at the ground and mumbling to himself when a few steppes down a figure came into sight. Anders and Merrill fell into step behind him as he charged the target only to pull up short when he recognized Samson, the beggar from the docks.

          “Maker, the day keeps getting better and better.” The man had cursed, spitting on the ground at Hawke’s feet. “Figured you be here sooner or later, bit too late if you ask me. Fucking robes are all in a tizzy down there, bickering over Maker only knows. Thrask barely has handle on the situation, so I got out while I still could. Robes could turn Abomination at any time with all the talk of blood magic going on.” He had spit again, scratching at his belly as he accessed Garrett.

          Merrill had stiffened behind him at the mention of blood magic and he could nearly feel Justice emerging from Anders. He had turned slightly to the Healer and shook his head. Now was not the time for Anders’ passenger to show out.

          “What’s going on down there, I was told they have one of my people.” Garrett had said sharply. Hands tightening on his staff as he waited for Samson to deign to answer.

          “Ah yes, the Vint with the fancy markings. Mages said they needed some kind of leverage on you, make you more cooperative, see. So they picked one that was on his own, though as I hear tell he was a bitch to bring down. Something about lyrium and glowing. Buncha bullshite if you ask me.” Samson grumbled and moved to try and pass the group, “Now if you’ll ‘scuse me, I’d like to get the fuck outta here before some Robe gets a bit too antsy if you catch my drift.”

          They let him pass and with a quick look at each other made their way down the path, a large group of people in the clearing just beyond the outcropping of rocky shore. Staffs and Bianca in hand they strode forward, Hawke looking through the bodies to find his lover.

          The Knight-Templar Thrask came forward, arms up in a peaceful gesture. Hawke had snarled outright at that taking a large step towards the Templar before a hand caught on the back of his robe and drew him up short.

          Varric having seen that Hawke was beyond speaking stepped forward and took over, asking after the whereabouts of the Elf. Thrask had stepped aside to show the prone form of Fenris lying in the sand. He didn’t look injured, which infinitesimally brightened Hawke’s mood. Not that it mattered, two bad words from releasing the fear, anxiety and anger in the form of a bout of wild magics.

          It had devolved from there. Grace, yet another that Hawke had saved had stepped forward, loudly declaring that the Hostage should be killed and Garrett dealt with. The force of her magic slammed Thrask into a ledge, and Hawke watched as the man’s eyes had dimmed as he slid down the rock leaving a bloody smear in its wake.

          Grace’s eyes had gleamed with a twisted light and he watched in horror as she used Thrask’s blood to summon shades, calling to the other mages to join her. Templars had formed rank behind Hawke and they had joined the fray, Garrett slamming the Maleficar with his Force Magic, fighting to get to Grace.

          He delighted in pummeling her with the absolute power he had at his command, slinging her from one side of the camp to the other. Dodging her Entropy spells and glyphs with ease, he swung his staff and brought the wicked blade strapped to the end to rest under her chin. He didn’t give her the satisfaction of speaking again, thrusting it through her throat and watching as she fell to the ground. He turned and began to make his way to Fenris’ prone form, only to hear the warning growl behind him.

          He whipped back around in time to watch as Grace’s body contorted. Bones and skin splitting, the ozone of raw magic filling the air. Garrett watched in horror as a Pride Demon clawed its way out of the Fade and focused its attention on him. He dodged as it swiped out at him with a massive taloned hand. His Force Magic didn’t seem to faze it and he switched tactics. Calling for Merrill and Anders to freeze it solid and Varric to keep it pinned. He watched as bolt after bolt hit its feet, pinning it effectively in place, a thick shell of ice quickly ensconcing the beast.

          “Anders, a firestorm would be nice right about now.” Garrett said dashing up a steppe to find a ledge almost level with the Demon’s head.

          “Are you _fucking_ insane? We just got it frozen and now you wanna melt it?!” Anders yelled, all the same still starting to work the spell. A barrage of fire pelted the monster, licking at the ice and beginning to thaw it out. Garrett dug deep into his mana focusing on the static in the air, building it up and waiting, waiting. The beast had nearly broken free of the ice, feet still pinned thanks to Bianca, a thin sheen of water and ice coating its thick hide. He gave it all he had as he threw the static ball towards the heavens, feeding it mana and watching as a lightning storm exploded.

          The Pride Demon screamed piercingly as the water and ice helped conduct the electricity throughout its body, with both feet planted firmly on the ground it built the feedback loop until it began to fry from the inside out. He crowed with delight as the Demon swayed still crackling with lightning and fell with a booming crash. He slid down the dune and kicked the thing for good measure, whooping in victorious glee.

          Merrill had called his attention back and he sobered quickly, moving to crouch near where she was looking over Fenris. Beside her Alain was speaking quickly, laying out the spell used to keep Fenris sedated.

          “Blood Magic?” He roared, staff raising, Alain had waved his hands emphatically when the tip of his staff began to glow.

          “Please Messere, I didn’t do it. I don’t condone blood magic, you know that.” He whispered, eyes never looking away from the swirling ball of energy. Anders had lain a hand of his shoulder and he had slowly lowered his staff.

          “Explain now.” He growled.

          “Grace put him in a trance, he’s only sleeping right now. She said it would be easier that way, she was scared of him.” Alain said, sucking in a breath quickly before continuing, “She used blood magic, and it’ll take more to wake him up. Unfortunately, you killed the last one…uh..I mean…” Garrett silenced him with a look.

          “Actually we’re good to go on that front. Merrill figure out how to cancel it. I…I need to go hit something I think.” He blew out a breath and stood, shouldering his staff and turning on his heal.

          “Anders stay here with Daisy, I’m gonna go make sure Hawke doesn’t break any knuckles.” Varric said patting Merrill’s knee and following after Garrett.

          Anders cursed softly and looked down into the bright smile of a certain Dalish Blood Mage.

 

          Garrett hadn’t gone far, finding a sturdy tree just up the path and smacking open palms on the trunk. The tree juddered under every heavy blow, and he muttered as he thwacked it. Varric perching on a boulder close to the tree and watching as Hawke worked out his aggression, and anger. He’d wager fear was swirled up in there too, not that Garrett the Bold and Reckless would ever let it be known.

          “He’s gonna be ok Hawke, we found him and now Broody’s got the best damn healer in Thedas watching over him. Daisy too,” The dwarf has said, loud enough to be heard. Voice calm and direct. Hawke looked over at him with a snort and kept pummeling the tree.

          “It’s not that, Varric. I wouldn’t have left if I didn’t think he was in good hands,” He grumbled, hands fisting and punching the trunk outright. “It’s the fact that he’s here at all because of me that’s got me worked up.”

          “Hey I’m sure he’ll be ok with it, Broody’s got a sense of adventure in that thick skull of his somewhere, I’m sure of it.” He beamed brightly as Hawke glowered at him. “Oh stop that, Hawke. You know as well as I do, he won’t blame you for other’s being idiots.”

          Garrett harrumphed and continued his barrage, knuckles splitting on the tough bark. With a particularly hard thrust he shouted in surprise as his hand hit the trunk, and then kept going. The blows he had been raining down upon it weakening the wood enough that he’d cracked the roots, causing the entire tree to tip over precariously. He sighed lowly, eyeing the stones next to Varric.

          “Nope, no Serrah. I promised our beloved Healer that I wouldn’t let you break your fingers. You’ll have to be satisfied with the damage you’ve done to the tree.” He patted at hand in the space next to him and waited until Garrett had hefted his massive frame up and onto the boulder.

          “Wanna tell me what’s really going on in the Champion head of yours?” The dwarf wheedled once he had gotten comfortable. He grinned at Hawke when the man upped the notch on his glower.

          Sighing Garrett looked at his bloodied hands, allowing a spark of lightning to swirl in his cupped hands.

          “I thought, Maker…I thought I was going to lose him. That they’d kill him, or what have you. I was scared. Terrified really, he…I…,” He faltered, bolt extinguishing as he looked at his friend. Varric’s face was sympathetic, listening intently as his friend spoke.

         “He’s been acting strangely these past few weeks, it started out as little things at first. Then it snowballed until he looked like a wild animal in a cage. Like I was shackling him and he’d gnaw his own leg off to get free. And when Keran said they had him, it was like a stone in my belly. That I wouldn’t get the chance to find out what had been bothering him, that he’d die thinking he was alone.” His voice was soft, wavering slightly. He braced his hands on his knee, head bowed.

          “Hawke, I-,” Varric started only to straighten as Anders came down the path hailing them.

          “Blondie?” He called back.

          “Merrill’s just about got it, might wanna come back now.” Anders called before moving back to the Dalish’s side watching as Fenris stirred.

          Hawke came barreling back, skidding through the sand on his knees and clasped at the Elf’s hand. With a grunt from Merrill, he could feel the releasing of some kind of Magic and he watched Fenris’ face intently.

          The Elf gasped in a breath and opened his eyes briefly before turning to his side and vomiting. His piteous gagging spurred Anders’ into sending a pulse of healing magic through his body. Hawke carefully moved Fenris’ from the pool of bile quickly soaking into the sand and turned him to his back. Grimacing in worry, he saw him blink slowly, eyes hazy and uncomprehending before they slid closed again and he seemingly fainted.

          He looked to Merrill for an explanation and she frowned, “It was a nasty piece of work. They could have used any other kind of sleeping spell, but instead they chose one that would cause night terrors.” She stood and waved her hands angrily. “Whoever spelled him, they forced him to…” She bowed her head, fingers laced tightly over her staff, lip worrying her bottom lip. He waited as patiently as he was able before he couldn’t anymore.

          “Merrill?” He half-shouted, startling the woman.

          “That poor man, they made him relive a memory. The worst one he knows. That’s why they used that spell.” Her large eyes widened as she spoke, unshed tears gathering in the corners.

          Hawke gawked at her for a moment before turning on Alain again.

          “Who used the spell, who did that to him?” He snarled, Alain went white in the face of his anger looking to Hawke’s companions and finding no help.

          “You killed the culprit, I didn’t do it! I told you it was Grace! I was here only to try and find a solution to the Knight-Commander,” He said, terror contorting his features

          “Uh Hawke, we have incoming.” Varric said from behind him and he sighed and turned to find Knight-Captain Cullen coming down the path a retinue of Templars at his heels.

          He surveyed the area, noticing quickly the cooling bodies of Templars littering the clearing. Scowling in distaste at the body of the Pride Demon.

          “We heard that there was a large group of Mages and Templars meeting here and we came to investigate. Obviously we arrived too late,” He sighed reholstering his sword and moving closer to Hawke.

          Garrett stood and shielded Fenris from view, arms crossing over his chest as he waited for Cullen to continue. Noticing Alain in the background Cullen cocked his head and nodded to one of his men. They marched smartly over to the escaped Circle Mage and clapped him enchanted irons.

          “I see you found a would-be apostate,” He quirked an eyebrow at Hawke, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

        “I suppose I did, be gentle with him Cullen. He is guiltless and is returning willingly.” Hawke said slowly, eyeing the group of Templars and feeling Anders and Merrill step closer to him.

          “I will make a plea on his behalf to the Knight-Commander, but I make no promises. We found a former Templar on the way here,” He clicked his fingers and Samson was shoved forward. Garrett ignored his outraged cries at his treatment and raised an eyebrow back at Cullen, waiting for the man to explain.

          “He used to be a Templar, until he was stripped of his shield. Seeing as he was apparently in on this, meeting, he could be jailed and held for aiding and abetting…Maleficar.” Cullen said simply, gesturing to the still howling man.

          “He absconded the second he realized there was Blood Magic at play. I’d give him a second chance.” Hawke said, hand lifting to rub at his brow in frustration. Samson quelled his groaning and looked at him in shock before looking to Cullen, something akin to hope blooming in his face.

          “As I said before, I make no promises. But I’ll bring it to Meredith’s attention that he might be worthy of a second chance. I suppose that fulfills our orders here. Champion.” He bowed his head respectfully before barking out orders to his retinue and leaving just as fast as he had come.

          Anders let out a hard breath and the tension in the clearing abated somewhat.

          “I suppose it’s time for us to return home as well.” Hawke said still rubbing at his temples. “Let’s get Fenris home, Maker, this is becoming a disturbing habit. Carting him from the Wounded Coast as he lays insensate between us.” He moved to the Elf’s side, stopping as he noticed a glinting in the sand just beyond where Fenris lay. He moved closer and found a colossal Great Sword partially buried in the sand. He hefted the sword and gave it a practice swing, smiling softly. A gift for Fenris he supposed, once the Elf woke. He strapped it to his back along with his staff.

          Moving back to the unconscious form he gently lifted Fenris into his arms and began the long march back to Kirkwall, his companions tiredly trailing behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Staying up late yet again, for the second night in a row. Lookit that, chapter 10 already. Shocker. XD
> 
>  
> 
> For those who have given kudos, commented, read. I thank you.
> 
> It means a lot to see a new comment or kudos. <3
> 
> Ooooh would you look at that, a Blade of Mercy... It's probably my second favorite weapon because of how much it means to Fenris.


	11. Running Scared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guys I'm sorry this is so short.
> 
> I'll leave you to read this in peace and I'll explain why in the bottom notes.

          His eyes opened to take in the pale stones of the Darktown Clinic’s ceiling. An amused consternation filtered through him as he raised himself from the cot, swearing as a pulsating pain lanced through his temples. Hawke was seated not far off, speaking to Merrill, Anders and Varric in hushed tones. His eyebrow quirked as Varric caught the movement and jabbed at Hawke.

          “Good to see you awake Broody.” He snickered as Garrett stood and moved to Fenris’ side. He offered a wry smile in return to the dwarf before looking up at Hawke.

          “It would seem that I’m destined to be knocked unconscious and awaken here.” He said softly, watching as Garrett’s lips twitched at his words.

          “So it would seem. Do me a favor, and refrain from continuing this trend if you please.” His rumbling voice laced with relieved laughter, as he clasped Fenris’ hand in his own.

          “Thank the Creators you’ve woken, I thought you’d sleep forever!” Merrill said as she moved to his side and her large eyes wide and joyful. He fought to keep his distaste under wraps, accessing her as she fretted with his blanket and babbling on in that meandering way of hers.

          He looked to Anders who had come forward as well and inclined his head at him. He had no doubts that the Mage had worn himself thin yet again to care for him while he slept. He was starting to feel he may end up owing the Healer a great deal if he continued to need his services.

          “Headache aside, I am hoping that I’m free to go. Seeing as all my body parts are still attached and I’m not in crippling pain.” He said dryly, cutting through Merrill’s blubbering. Anders chuckled lowly before moving to touch Fenris’ head, a cooling balm washing through his temple. The Elf hissed in relief as the pounding subsided, slowly standing from the cot. Hawke kept a heavy hand on his arm, hovering like a mother hen. He bit his tongue though, against the wave of mordant comments that threatened to spill from his lips.

          Garrett thanked his companions before slowly leading Fenris from the clinic and up and into the Hawke Estate, hand firmly grasping his own. Despite being asleep for so long, he was tired, mind still raw from the flashback it had endured. Hawke seemed to sense this and they made their way up into their bedroom. Fenris headed to the bed and sighed with pleasure as he sank into the soft fabric, curling up and pulling the coverlets to his chin.

          Hawke watched him with a small smile before hefting himself onto his side of the bed, large hands reaching out and tugging the lithe body of his Elven lover into his bulk. Heavy arms wrapping around his body, a comforting wall that held him close, his eyes slipping closed as he waited for Hawke to speak.

          “Fenris, I…” Garrett faltered, mouth going dry as he searched for words that were eluding him at that moment. “I am sorry, that they came after you. That I wasn’t aware that they had, and that you got dragged into it.”

          Fenris sighed and one bright green eye opened to look up into Hawke’s face.

          “Not your fault. If it wasn’t me it could have, would have been someone else. Be glad that Carver is safely ensconced within the Grey Wardens, I can only begin to imagine the smart mouthed-ness that he would have unleashed. Had it been him.” His mouth tilted in a smirk as he felt Garrett huff out a breath.

          “Thank the Maker for small mercies I suppose.” Hawke said, voice low. He brushed his lips over Fenris’ forehead and pulled him in tighter. “However, it was you. And they used their filthy blood magic on you. Are you alright?” His tone melancholy and stressed with barely held anger.

          “For all intents and purposes, I’ve endured worse. I’m guessing you know what the spell did, yes?” When Hawke nodded he closed his eye again and settled his cheek upon the massive expanse of Garrett’s chest before speaking again. “It was the Fog Warriors again, something that I dream of often. Just more vivid, more tangible. It felt like I was there again. Like I was experiencing it again. I won’t deny it was…unpleasant for lack of a better word, but I will overcome.” His fingers curled tighter into Hawke’s night shirt and he concentrated on breathing, stomach clenching as he tried to ward off wave of nausea. Fingers carded through his hair and he hummed at the feeling, relaxing as they rubbed soothingly in circles on his scalp.

          They lay like that for a while, reveling in the closeness and the touch. He was nearly asleep when the fingers moved down his back and began kneading along his spine. He groaned as the pressure, body bowing as Hawke continued. Large hands spanning his body, mouth seeking the expanse of his neck mouthing along the flesh before moving and claiming Fenris’ lips. He felt Hawke turning them as they kissed, and he felt a flare of panic as a hand made to slide under his tunic.

          Wrapping his legs around Garrett’s middle he used all his strength to flip their positions, sitting on Hawke’s hips neatly as the larger man gasped with the movement. He shushed him with a kiss, pulling Garrett’s hands from his body and laying them on the pillows above and moving his hands down to the laces of his trousers. Grinning as he managed to unlace them quickly and snaking his hand down the front before raising himself up and kissing Hawke soundly. He wasn’t expecting the hands on his hips, fingers scrabbling at his own leggings. He felt the man smirk under his lips and in a moment he was back underneath him, eyes going wide as his leggings were being stripped down. His body went cold, and he struggled to stop Hawke. While nearly back up to his original weight, he wasn’t ready to bare himself to Garrett for scrutiny. Too sure that the man would be able read the months of pain in his still too thin frame.

          Hawke thinking it was all part of the game laughed and restrained Fenris’ hands, biting at his neck and moaning as his fingers found flesh instead of fabric. Fenris’ breath was quickening, fear scouring every inch of his being. He kicked and fought, only to find himself restrained further as Hawke nuzzled into his throat. He could take it no longer and phased, lyrium flaring brightly as he scrambled from the bed and from the room.

          He flew through the halls and down the main staircase, fingers very nearly tearing his leggings as he fought to pull them up. He turned sharply and considered his options with a flurried mind. There!

          Racing to the door he flung it open and then closed behind himself. Locking the door quickly and sliding down the wood to sit against it. He folded his long legs, knees against his chest and lay his forehead against them. Hawke would no doubt look for him soon for an explanation, and his heart clenched in distress as he cast about for a suitable one. He had kept his secret for this long, he would be damned if this is how it came spilling out.

          He looked up and caught sight of himself in the floor to ceiling mirror of the bathing chamber, his cheeks pallid and eyes glossy. Even in the distance he could see the trembling in his shoulders. He eyed the purpling mark that darkened the skin of his neck and a shaky hand reached up to touch it.

          He bit his lip as he could hear the thundering steps of Hawke barreling around the manor. Fenris’ name being shouted at the top of Garrett’s lungs, the man’s tone panicked and fearful.

          He bit ever harder as his vision blurred, and he scrubbed harsh fingers over his eyes. He was not weak, and he would not cry and he wouldn’t hide from his lover. Even as he thought it, he found he couldn’t bring himself to move. His will sapped as he struggled with tears and hid from the man he loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started this chapter the night of the U.S. Election, when I began it I had a goal in mind to accomplish this chapter.   
> It got derailed very quickly however when I became aware that Drumpf had won the Election.  
> I'm scared, and angry. Not the ideal emotions for writing fanfictions lemme tell you.
> 
> I'm walking around in a fog right now, and I'm fighting to remember how to breath without crying every five minutes.
> 
> Forgive me for the small chapter, but I couldn't manage anymore right now.
> 
> Tomorrow I will try again, and I hope to present you with a very long chapter.


	12. Confessions of a Certain Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still slogging through. I think I might be able to churn out another chapter, maybe.
> 
> Short chapter again, sorry but I'll try to make it up with another chapter tonight.

          A heavy fist pounded on the door, the vibrations reverberating through his spine as he sat against the wood. He could hear Hawke calling out his name as he bombarded the door, the man’s voice strained and trembling as he called out to Fenris.

          “Sweetheart, please open the door.” The words oozing confusion and fear, flat palms smacking on the heavy wood in desperation.

          His limbs were numb as he crawled to his knees, scooting along the tiles until he was able to reach the knob and flip the latch. The force of the door moving him across the floor as it fell open, Hawke spilling into the room as if he’d been leaning on it with all his weight and was caught unawares as it had been opened.

          He rose from the floor gaze skittering around the room until he found Fenris in the corner just beyond the door, dark skin drawn pale and wane. His cheeks wet and eyes red rimmed, shoulders hunched as he curled in on himself. Garrett moved slowly, watching as bright green eyes locked onto him. The Elf trembled as he moved closer, teeth chattering with anxiety. It tore at his heart, that Fenris could be so afraid of him. Guilt and anger at his actions, his mistake that was now causing the Elf to tremble, as if he were yet again caught in a trap and trying to find an escape route. As if he were seeing enemies in the shadows closing in.

          “Fenris?” Voice quiet, soothing, hands out in a peaceful manner. He kept his gestures smooth and unthreatening, inching his way along the floor. “Hey now, it’s okay. You’re safe. No one is going to hurt you. I promise.”

          His ears perked at the tone, and he breathed in relief as his eyes cleared somewhat and he slowly stopped trembling. Fenris swallowed hard before lifting his head higher and cocking it in question.

          “Hawke?” He rasped, throat dry and voice rough with the fear straining it. Garrett nodded emphatically, moving ever closer before he was finally able to lay a hand on Fenris’ knee. Touch gentle and soft.

          “It’s me, only me. Breathe for me love, come on now. In, out.” He coached, demonstrating the long breaths and slow exhales. Fenris mimicked him, shoulders relaxing somewhat. His demeanor change subtly, back straightening and face clearing of dread. When he had managed a few inhales and exhales without choking, he moved forward and crawled into Hawke’s arms. Weight pushing the man back onto his arse and clambering into his lap with a low whimper.

          “Shhhh, my love, shhh.” He hesitated to move, wanting nothing more than to wrap his arms around the form on his lap but not wanting to startle him. Instead laying his hands on the long legs that were wrapped around his hips, fingers trailing patterns along the tight leggings that covered them.

          The short wuffs of air caught in his chest and he struggled for a moment before a keening wail escaped him. Tears renewed as he clawed at Hawke’s back, pressing them together as if he could crawl into Garrett’s person if he only tried hard enough. The hands on his legs stilled before grasping tightly at his waist, holding him close and rocking them softly. All the pain and shame, the guilt and self-torment came out in unending sobs that gagged him, it scraped at his soul. Like a fire that cleanses as it burns, it ravaged through him as he clung to his beloved. He knew in the back of his mind that explanations would have to be forth coming but in that moment he let himself go. Held secure, loved and cherished.

 

***

 

          They stayed like that for only Maker knew how long, until the Elf had cried himself dry. Dry heaving with the torrent of pain that had leached itself from his system. Garrett had held him close, hands tracking a slow soothing pattern down his back. Cheek to cheek as he held him as he wept. The show of such emotion frightened him. He knew Fenris, this was not just from the dreams the accursed spell had wrought. No, this was a pain that had been held for far too long. And he cursed himself for not realizing the pain that his lover had obviously been in. Pain that he had not recognized in the silences, in the hesitant touches or the drawn look that had overcome him.

          A sniffling in his ear, and a swipe of and down Fenris’ face alerted him that the purge of emotion was drawing to a close and he shifted. Drawing the Elf back a bit so he could look upon him, brown eyes tracing the features of his love that he knew so well.

          “Better?” He asked lowly, raising a hand to tuck a lock of white hair behind a delicately pointed ear.

          “No, I cannot breathe out of my nose, and I have made a terrible mess of your sleep shirt with my foolish blubbering.” A laughably familiar scowl pulling at the Elf’s lips. Hawke tried to smile in the face of his disgruntlement but failed miserably. Sad eyes looking up into Fenris’ face as the Tevinter scrubbed harshly at his face.

          “I can get another shirt, it’s of no consequence Fenris. I…” He said, voice little higher than a whisper, too afraid of upsetting the man in his lap. “I would like for you to be straightforward with me, please. This episode, such as it is, was long in coming if the force behind it is to believed. What is going on in that head of yours Fenris?”

          Green eyes slid shut, body going taut against his and Garrett bit his tongue, afraid that he had pushed too hard too fast. Hands rubbing a little too fast against Fenris’ back in anxiety but unwilling to let him go just yet. He put his chin on a stiff shoulder, burying his face in Fenris’ neck and just breathing in the scent of the Elf. Hoping against hope that he would be able to speak.

          Fenris was struggling internally, wanting desperately to lay his troubled bare. But the words wouldn’t come. They knotted like a fist in his chest and held his voice captive. He fought with it for a moment before letting out a blustery breath, leaning forward to lay his forehead against the wide shoulder of the man holding him.

          He tried again, hands curling against the rough spun cloth of the sleep shirts that Garrett favored. Eye scrunching tightly as he tried to get the words to flow.

          “I…” He faltered, voice tight with emotion even after his upheaval. “Varania wrote back to me, and I have worried myself about responding to her about it. I would like to meet her if I could. I am terrified, that it could be used as a trap for me. But I can’t go the rest of my life not knowing what could have been.” The lie came easily. Slipping off his lips without complaint and without the choking that the truth had incurred. He tightened his hands slightly as he spoke, self-loathing sweeping back through himself as he lied to Hawke.

          “I haven’t been able to sleep or eat with my trepidation. My family is within my grasp but I find myself faltering with the decision.”

          He was pushed back slightly and he sighed as Hawke studied him, eyebrows furrowing as he took in the new information. Fenris waited with bated breath, hoping that Hawke would accept it and not press. With a long studying look the man nodded, and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

          “I get the feeling that that is but one problem that you are telling me. But I will let the matter lie until you are ready to tell me of the rest. On your own terms. I want to know Fenris, I wish to ease your pain with what you are dealing with. But I will wait until you are comfortable with sharing it.” Hawke said, eyes lowered and a small frown tugging at the corners of his lips.

          Fenris sighed quietly in relief before leaning against the man and wrapping his arms around broad shoulders. Shame burning through him and coloring his cheeks as he hid his face in the crook of Hawke’s neck.

          “Amatus, be patient with me. When I feel I can voice the turmoil inside me, I will. As of now, it chokes me and renders me speechless.” He said, voice drawn thin with stress and the swirl of emotion that was yet again tugging at him.

          “That’s all I can ask of you my love.” Garrett sighed, enveloping the lithe frame still perched in his lap. Face downcast as he held the elf and pondered their conversation.

 

***

 

          Sometime later Fenris and Garrett retreated to the library with a sheaf of paper, ink and new quills. He helped Fenris pen a new letter to Varania, entreating her to come to Kirkwall to visit. To see Fenris for herself. Fenris’ hands wrung themselves as they sent it off, frame taut with stress as he watched the messenger ride off.

          His past and family were within his grasp. Why then did he feel that perhaps it would have been better to let sleeping dogs lie?

          He felt Garrett move closer to his side and slip his hand in his. He tightened his hold as Fenris looked to him, eyes wide with worry and fear. One problem could be solved now, he would wait until he was allowed to shoulder all the rest that burdened his beloved. It would have to do, for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish Fenris had been able to spill his secret, but alas...not this chapter.
> 
> I promised a longer chapter, but my mind had other thoughts. Huuurgh....


	13. Letters from Qarinus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter so soon? 
> 
> My eyes are burning.... e_e;;;
> 
>  
> 
> Little longer, yay.

          The next morning found him in Anders’ clinic for his standing appointment. Eyes bleary and yawning as he opened the door and strode into the clinic, a large basket hung over his arm. He made his way to one of the triage stations and laid out a spread of meats, cheeses, and fresh bread. He helped himself to it and sat down on a nearby cot and waited for Anders’ to join him.

          He didn’t have to wait long, the Healer emerging from his backroom with a yawn himself. Stretching his lanky form as he walked. He eyed the offerings and thanked Fenris quietly before digging in. Simple fare, but better than he’d be able to acquire in Darktown. Stuffing the last of his meal in his mouth he dusted off the crumbs and stood, turning to Fenris and waiting for the Elf to finish his own portion.

          Grimacing as he moved he lifted his tunic up and over, hissing as his sleep stiff muscles protested. The lyrium had burnt the edges of his skin again, the sudden draining usage of them searing his skin. Less damage than he might have garnered weeks prior, but still painful. He felt Anders’ fingertips follow the lines, a cooling blast of healing magic imbuing itself into his skin.

          “Better, they’re not as raw looking.” The absentminded comment was muttered as the Healer bent to get a closer look at a lingering sore.

          He bore the touch as best as he could, keeping still and allowing the Mage to inspect him.

          “You’ve bulked up considerably, but it’s not quite where you were is it?” He asked, circling him again and assessing him. Fenris shook his head, a hand coming to pull through his hair in agitation.

          “I still find myself tiring quickly. My sword skills have suffered significantly, as I cannot heft the weight as readily as I used to. Which when accompanying Hawke on one of his fortuitous missions is not the greatest feeling.” He drew in a breath, hand falling back into his lap as he strove to continue. “Pulling on the Lyrium pains me, it always has. But now it seems to have a…physical effect. Whether or not it will abate with my strength returning is an unsettling thought to ponder.”

          Anders raised an eyebrow and moved to make notes in his charts that he kept on the Elf. Scribbling madly for a moment before returning to stand before Fenris and studying him further.

          “I am unsure if it will abate, I have never seen magic like this. And there is magic still embedded in them, you know.” At Fenris’ nod he continued. “I have been researching the study of Lyrium and its potential. But as you are the first to ever survive it actually imbued into your flesh. Untold abilities to be sure, but with it comes the backlash of not knowing exactly what it will do to you over time.” His mouth was set in a frown when Fenris glanced up at him and he shrugged with as much nonchalance as he could muster.

          “I’ve lived this long without horrendous side effects, this can be managed with your salve. And I’m thankful. If that’s all?” He asked, turning to pick up his tunic and slipping it over his head.

          “I actually wanted to go over what happened yesterday,” Anders said, stepping back to allow the Elf to dress. Arms crossing as a confused look was shot his way.

          “You got caught up in a nasty spell, and that can do some serious damage. Anything that seemed out of the ordinary?”

          “No, nothing of import. From the way Hawke told it, Merrill and you were able to purge most of it from my system.” He said, looking at his feet before making himself continue. “Thank you…Anders.”

          The Mage looked at him in shock, mouth falling open and eyes wide.

          “You helped me even when I have done nothing but insult you, antagonize you. You continue to help me, with these sessions. When you could have refused, or ignored my wishes and gone directly to Hawke. It speaks well of your character that you do this for me, even as I was ungrateful and harsh.” His face pinked with embarrassment, mouth clamping shut as he waited for the Healer to regain himself, to mock him.

          “I…Fenris…”

          He didn’t get a chance to say much more as the door to the clinic slammed open and Hawke came sauntering in, a familiar smirk on his face. One that dropped quickly as he found Anders and Fenris standing in what could almost be called a companionable atmosphere. Anders stepped lightly around the Elf and strode to Garrett, finger up and shaking in the man’s face as he chided him for the abuse to his door.

          “What has that door done to you so early in the morning!?” Finger wagging almost as fast as his tongue, he scolded Hawke.

          Smiling in amusement he caught and held Hawke’s gaze over the Mage’s shoulder, shaking his head as Garrett cocked his head at him with a quizzical look.

          “Are you listening to me, Garrett?!” Anders was squawking until Hawke ruffled his already sleep mussed head and planted a heavy arm on his shoulder.

          Fenris sighed and crossed his arms, “You’ve got a really bad idea and you want to drag us along. Am I correct?” He smirked as Hawke roared with laughter at Anders’ sputtering and his wry smile.

          “Now now, I wouldn’t call it a _bad_ idea per se…”

          Anders removed the heavy arm and took a striding step back, crossing his own arms and harrumphed with a scowl.

          “And now that you’ve said that, it will be a blood bath. With Spiders. Giant, gnaw your toes off, ones.” He huffed a breath, watching as Garrett quit smiling, getting that look on his face that he reserved for getting his way.

          “Don’t you _dare._ Stop it! Garrett, Maker help me, stop it! Ugh…fine. Let me get my gear.” He threw his hands in the air in defeat and moved to the back to start strapping himself into his gear.

          Hawke looked back at Fenris with a raised eyebrow and the Elf laughed lowly.

          “I figured I was going the moment your lip started quivering. Let me fetch my armour and we can head out.”

          Hawke called out to Anders, telling him to meet them at the Hanged Man when he was ready and trotting after Fenris.

          He watched as Fenris pulled on his cuirass, buckling the armour into place. Slipping the spiked pauldrons onto his shoulders and lacing his gauntlets tightly. He turned retrieve his sword to find it gone. He looked about, and when it was nowhere in sight he looked to Garrett in question.

          “I have something for you, I hope you’ll like it.” He said, moving to his wardrobe and fishing out a massive tarp covered object, hefting it into his arms and presenting his armful to the Elf.

          He untied the twine strings that held the packaging together, lifting the flaps and staring at the sword that lay within.

          “I put Lethendralis into the armoury, I found this and I thought of you. Do you like it?” Garrett asked, watching as Fenris slowly hefted the Great Sword.

          Fenris hefted the sword and looked back at Hawke with a raised eyebrow. “You don’t know what this is do you?”

          “A…really fancy sword?”

          “No,” He chuckled and cradled it in his arms, “It’s a Blade of Mercy, replicas of the sword Archon Hessarian used to kill Andraste. Danarius coveted them as I recall. This one looks finely crafted.”

          “And it’s worth something I suppose?”

          “It is, let me show you,” He held his hand above the blade and activated his Lyrium. Fissures of light flared up the metal, reacting to the power that he wielded. Hawke watched slackjawed as the Elf manipulated the enchantments.

          “The irony as I use this is quite…satisfying.” He said smirking at Hawke’s expression before allowing the Lyrium to fade and the blade to dim.

         “Well it’s all yours, though…” He looked at the blade considering it before smirking. “Maybe keep Sebastian in the dark about the history of it? Wouldn't want to offend his sensibilities now would we?”

          “Indeed.”

***

 

          Weeks passed, then months. First Fall coming and going, Satinalia was spent with raucous parties and much jubilation. He attended them with Hawke, passing out gifts to their many friends and engaging in the merriment that was in abundance.

          First Day came and went, a blustery wind sweeping the snows of Winter off of Kirkwall, a warm burst allowing the first flowers to peek their heads from the chilled ground.

          He was growing anxious, there had been no word from Varania. He paced the halls of the Manor on the days that Hawke didn’t need his Sword, and fretted internally when he was selected.

          Tensions were growing in the city, and Hawke became more and more mired in the growing dissent between the Templars and Mages. Called nearly every other day to answer to the whims of the First Enchanter or Knight-Commander.

          The stress echoed in his sleep, grumblings that kept Fenris up. Interspersed with mentions of the Mage Healer of Darktown, worry and strain taking its toll. He slept poorly, dark circles marking his fair skin. He shouldered the weight of the trials of the arguments without complaint, and tried to keep up a persona of cheer.

          Seeing Garrett so riled unnerved Fenris, and he more and more often sought solace in the Chantry and in his growing felicity with Anders.

          The Mage was surprised with his visits, not all of them for the reason of healing the Lyrium burns that still plagued him. They conversed on topics outside Mage rights, Circles and his past in Tevinter. And he found common interests in the man he hadn’t expected. They debated politics, business interests and the tensions that had Kirkwall in its grasp.

          Hawke had found them many a time in the Darktown clinic, merely raising an eyebrow as he listened to them converse. Watching with some shock as they managed to curtail their need to ceaselessly barb each other. He had only shook his head and sat in to listen to them banter, smiling as they managed to find common ground.

          It had been during one of their conversations, Hawke being called away to the Circle yet again, and bored with book in the library Fenris had sought the Mage out. Clinic empty and hands fighting idleness with potion making.

          Anders took him by surprise, and that he supposed had been what had loosened his tongue.

          “Not that I’m complaining about our new comradery, but why have you decided that I’m worth your time?” Anders had asked, concentrating on the elfroot that he was picking leaves off.

          “Besides the fact you’ve saved my hide on more times than I can count with my fingers?” He asked wryly, plucking a stalk of elfroot from the pile and spinning it between his fingers.

          “As I recall, that never garnered me any favors before you began coming to me for your Lyrium.”

          Fenris focused on the deep green of the foliage before answering, “For a very long time you frustrated me, your opinions on Mages and their rights. Your lackadaisical attitude toward your…spirit. I come from a place where blood magic is the norm, and magical abilities are used to harm. I immediately formed an opinion of you, one that held for quite a while.”

          He sighed and returned the plant to Anders’ pile and stood, pacing and trying to find the right words.

          “My opinion colored every encounter thereafter. Until you ran into that nest of bandits and Justice bellowed about slaves and meting out punishments.” He laced his fingers behind his back and stalked up and down the aisle of cots, head bowed and brow furrowed as he spoke.

         “Hawke was, is, very…taken with you.” His teeth clenched as he fought not to speak, heart pounding. But the words clamored in his throat, finally slipping out.

          “He…he speaks of you in his sleep. He seems to be enamored of you. It fueled my anger, to hear the man that I loved speak of someone else in our bed.” He whipped around and pointed at the man, “You, who I detested. And then you kissed him after his victory with the Arishok. And it felt like I was losing him to you.”

          Anders was white-faced, rigid and watching Fenris pace. Potion forgotten as he listened to the Elf.

          “He still speaks of you, calls out your name. He doesn’t know he’s doing it, and it hurt. A fog clouded my head for so many months, it soured and I couldn’t eat, sleep. Your name haunted me in the place that I call home, and I couldn’t stand it.” His Lyrium flared as he very nearly shouted the words, pain cutting through his heart. He wrapped his arms around himself, the tide of words slowing as he gasped for breath.

          A wound that had been festering for so long, letting the words out felt like a lance that drained the poison that was rotting inside. He looked wide eyed up to Anders and waited for the man to say something.

          “I…you…that’s why you?” Was the stammering reply.

          He jerked his head in a nod, looking toward the door. Wanting desperately to leave, but rooted to the spot. Waiting for Anders to either condemn him for his thoughts or mock him for them.

          He got neither.

          “Oh Fenris, I’m sorry. I’m sure it’s no secret how I feel about him,” Anders said, coming forward and looking into the Elf’s face. Face more somber than he’d ever seen. Fenris nodded again, eyes skittering away from the Healer’s face.

          “I am…” He swallowed hard, “Beseeching you, not to tell him of this. If he knew, it would hurt him. I love him, very much. And I’m begging you not to take him from me. Please.”

          With great trepidation he knelt in front of the Mage, head bowed and ignoring the outburst of horror that Anders let loose. He held onto the Healer’s hand and devolved into tears.

          “Anders please, you have the power to cripple me. I’m begging you,” His back bowed, head reaching the dusty paneling of the clinic as he sobbed. Anders was pulling on his tunic, trying to get him to stand. “My happiness depends on you, and whatever you decide to do.”

          He allowed the man to drag him to his feet, shock etched into every line in his face. He moved to speak, but Fenris shook his head and made his way to the clinic’s door and opening it.

          “Please Anders.” He said over his shoulder before moving through the door and closing it softly after him. Numb he made his way up the steps of the cellar, through the entrance hall and out into the streets of High Town.

          He made his way to the Chantry, wearily climbing yet more steps before he found himself in the Vestibule. Nose twitching as the wall of incense hit him. He moved through the Sanctuary and up to Sebastian’s alcove. He found the man reading at his desk, and stood waiting to be noticed.

          Sebastian felt eyes watching him and looked up to see Fenris standing at the door. His face was widening in welcome when he took in the wild eyes and empty expression. Standing quickly he moved to the Elf’s side, taking his hand and leading him through the Chantry and into the inner courtyard. Sitting him gently on a bench and taking his place beside him.

          “Fenris?” He asked, voice thick with worry.

          The Elf merely shook his head and bowed his head, shoulders slumping as he clasped his hands. He turned his head slightly, “Pray with me?”

          “Of course,” His soft voice echoing throughout the empty courtyard, strains of the Chant lilting and soothing. Fenris murmuring along with him and he tried to still the panic that swirling inside, taking comfort in the presence of his friend and the Words that sought to soothe his frayed nerves.

 

***

 

          They were found like that some hours later by Varric, who stopped at the door and waited for them to finish the stanza they were on before stepping forwardly smartly and clearing his throat to make his presence known.

          He lifted a hand up, an envelope held between two fingers.

          “I’ve been looking for you Broody, this just came in from Qarinus.” He proffered the letter, and the Elf raised a trembling hand and took it from him. Fingers shaking as he opened it, unfolding the heavy parchment and clearing his throat.

          “Varania…” He choked and started again, “She’s coming, she’s coming to Kirkwall. She says she’ll be here in a fortnight.” His eyes widened as he looked up to Varric, before seeking Sebastian’s.

          “I…she…” He garbled, fear and excitement fighting for dominance in his words, “She’ll be staying at the Hanged Man, and that if I wish to meet she’ll be there for a week.” A hand clapped on his shoulder and he bent his head to read and re-read the letter his sister had sent.

          Excitement won and he jumped to his feet, and bade Varric and Sebastian farewell before running full tilt for the Hawke Estate.

          Back in the courtyard Varric eyed Sebastian with a raised eyebrow.

          “A complete one eighty from how he arrived Varric, I assure you.” Sebastian said with some consternation. “I had been hoping he would tell me of it before you arrived. I can only hope that joy lasts until I can get him to talk to me again.” He sighed and stood, bowing slightly to the Dwarf and re-entering the Chantry.

          Left alone in the courtyard, Varric stroked along Bianca’s wooden handle before turning with a sigh.

          “You and me both Chantry Boy, you and me both.” Before taking his leave and heading back to his suite in the Tavern.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I managed to fulfill the Song Portion of this Fic. FINALLY.
> 
> But it's all going to evolve from here...
> 
>  
> 
> Eeesh...


	14. Alone: Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of the moments I've been waiting for...holy shit...
> 
> Finally.

          He paced the entrance hall, waiting for Hawke to return from whatever the Gallows had demanded of him that day. The letter that his sister had written was crumpled in one hand as he stalked. He’d read it, re-read it, folded it neatly before unfolding it again to scan the words on the parchment. He could recite portions of it by memory alone already with his re-readings. He looked to the water clock that sat on a table on his next round by it. Nearly the ninth bell, and Garrett was still not home.

          He had considered going to bed and speaking to Hawke of it in the morning, only to assess that he had too much pent up energy to even attempt to sleep. Carving a rut into the stones of the foyer was far more relaxing. Twenty-four steps to the door, twenty-four back. The practiced movement calmed him somewhat, enough that he was able to think.

          He knew the dangers in asking Varania to come to Kirkwall. He had dithered on the invitation for hours when Hawke and he had first written his reply. He hadn’t expected her to accept so soon, he was sure he had quite a bit of convincing to do before she ever set out to meet him. His ears twitching in agitation, lip caught between sharp, worrying teeth as he stepped. Danarius was an ever present threat, though since they had cornered Hadriana in the Slaver Den there had been scant news. It didn’t sit well, knowing that the Magister was still out there, plotting only Maker knew what.

         He turned again, hands wringing at the letter, the edges giving way and cracking from the strain. The pieces fluttered around him as he walked, too frazzled to notice. A soft hand tapped at his elbow and he startled, noticing it was too late that it was only Orana.

         The frightened woman backed away quickly, her hands in up in a warding gesture and he cursed softly for frightening her.

         “Apologies, Messere,” She said quietly, bowing slightly at the waist. “Supper is ready whenever you are. Messere Hawke said to expect him about this time, so I just now finished preparations.”

         “Ah, I…thank you, I’ll be there shortly.” He said, his voice low and gentle. She only bowed lower and backed out of the foyer to escape to the kitchen.

         He eyed the entrance a last time before slowly following her and slumping into a chair at the dining table. He’d just managed to help himself to the fresh bread and pickled eggs when the door slammed open and the soft swishing of heavy, sodden robes could be heard amidst the clicking of a staff on granite stone. He reached for the letter, only to stop as Hawke came into view.

         Face gaunt with stress, the circles under his eyes ever more present and a deep frown marred his starkly handsome face. He moved slowly, bone tired and leaning heavily on his staff. Fenris started to rise from his seat only to be waved back down as Hawke moved into the kitchen proper. Mumbling a greeting to Orana and near falling into a seat next to Fenris, sighing as he stretched his long legs under the table and moved to press a soft kiss to his cheek.

         “Maker, it feels good to be off my feet.” He sighed and let Orana take his staff before tearing at the bread, and piling his plate with meat and cheese. He let out a quick prayer before falling upon the plate with ravenous appetite. Groaning as he bit into the bread and promptly fitting as much as he could into his mouth at once.

         Fenris watched him for a second before slowly moving the letter from the table and into a pocket in his breeches. He couldn’t bother Garrett with it now, perhaps later when he wasn’t so tired. Fenris spent the rest of the meal listening to Garrett talk in between bites about rouge Templars and Mages both, and the headache inducing conversations between Meredith and Orsino. Picking as at his food as he tried to strangle the anxiety that was welling up inside him, and plastering a look of interest and sympathy across his face.

         Garrett talked when his mouth was capable of doing so, cheek leaning on a hand and eyes slipping closed. It was about then that Fenris took his hand and led him from the kitchen and up the stairs. Maker knew if Hawke fell asleep in the kitchen that would be where he would sleep. The Lyrium might grant him strength, but not even he could budge the massive form of Hawke when he didn’t want to be moved.

         He helped pull of his boots, tossing him a fresh night shirt and taking the drenched robes and flinging them across a chair. Hawke had merely fell backwards into the bed and was half asleep, he managed to prod him into laying the right way before beginning to strip off his own clothing.

         The sound of crinkling paper caught his attention and he pulled the letter out of his pocket and unfolded it once more. From the bed soft snores echoed in the expanse of the room, he gazed at the ink that scrawled messily across the parchment before sighing and tucking it into a drawer for later.

         Hawke had taken up a good two-thirds of the bed by the time he had shucked his own clothing and clambered in. Snorting in amusement he tucked himself into sprawling arms and closed his eyes.

         Tomorrow, he’d tell Hawke of the letter tomorrow.

 

 

***

 

          Tomorrow turned into the day after and that turned into a week, until the day Varania had said she would arrive was upon him and dawning with a stormy sky.

          Hawke had been run ragged in the weeks since the missive had come. The demands of the First Enchanter and Knight-Commander tugging him every which way, at all hours of the day and night. Hawke with his need to help, merely came and went as commanded. He came back ever more strained, overly tired and morose. Unless he accompanied him on the missions he barely saw Garrett at all. The man took care to rotate his companions so everyone got more than a couple hours sleep and a day in between jobs to attend to their own personal affairs. Not that he took such precaution with his own person, he came home at all hours and inhaled as much food as he could hold before falling asleep until the next call for aid came.

          All of this pushed the letter out of Fenris’ mind for a time, only coming upon the letter just that morning when he was rummaging for a pair of breeches. His finger brushed the letter and he stared at it for a second, heart pounding in his throat. He’d tell Hawke about it today, for sure. He slipped on his trousers before trailing after Garrett out the door and towards the Gallows.

 

***

          His plans for telling Hawke about the letter were slowly slipping out of reach, they had travelled all over Kirkwall at the behest of both Orsino and Meredith. Hawke soldiered on, but Merrill and Anders were showing signs of exhaustion and hunger. Mainly in the form of bickering that dragged on his nerves. It was more for the sake of silence that Garrett finally bid them a good night, shaking his head in consternation as they departed. Fenris moved to follow Hawke only to be stopped with a hand on his shoulder.

          “You should go get some rest too, Maker only knows how much longer it’ll be. I’ll head down to the Hanged Man and get Varric and Isabella. We should be able to handle this, probably.” The last comment was muttered under his breath but Fenris caught it with his sharp hearing.

          “Is it wise to search for Apostates without a Healer?” He asked, looking to Anders’ retreating back.

          “I’ve got enough health potions to last, we’ll be fine. Don’t worry, your face’ll get stuck like that, come now.” Hawke huffed a laugh, weary face pulling in a smile as the Elf glowered at him.

          “I can still catch Anders and drag him back,” He said sharply.

          “No, I’ll need him tomorrow. If the week continues as it has.” He tossed his staff back and forth between hands with an uneasy look.

          “You need your rest too, you’re not inexhaustible Hawke.” The Elf looked up at him with a note of concern and Garrett merely reached out a hand to thread his fingers through Fenris’ hair smiling blearily.

          “Just one more go, then I’ll be home. Promise. And you better be in bed, asleep. Agreed?” Hawke countered, still running his fingers through the shock of white hair, Fenris leaned into the contact and nodded slightly.

          “Agreed.” He murmured, pressing a quick kiss to Garrett’s lips before leaving him standing on the Docks of Lowtown and making his way up to the stairway leading to Hightown.

          Only once he was crossing by the Blooming Rose did he realize that he had yet again failed to mention the letter to Hawke.

 

***

 

          He was becoming more nervous as the days ticked by, the letter demanding more and more his attention until finally on the morning of the last day and he could put it off no longer. He waited until the morning meal for Hawke to be awake enough to listen. Watching as the man silently drank his tea, eyes blinking myopically in the weak light of the dawn.

          When the man was more or less alert he pulled the parchment from his pocket and was just opening his mouth to speak when Bodahn burst into the room, waving an envelope and yammering at the top of his voice.

          “Messere a letter from the First Enchanter. The Messenger said it was urgent.” Hawke let out a groaning sigh and reached for the letter, slitting the envelope and tearing the paper out. Fingers gouging at his temple in frustration, mouth scowling as he read the words on the parchment. He called for his staff and robes, standing and muttering angrily under his breath.

          Fenris bit his lip, debating between saying anything. The letter felt heavy in his hand and he steeled himself with a breath before standing also and looking to Hawke.

          “Garrett, I know you need to see to the matter at the Gallows, but I have a personal endeavor I need your help on.” His words were breathy and rushed, and his ears pinked as Hawke focused on him.

          “I’m sorry Fenris, this is…important. The Mages are in trouble and they need me.” He said, chagrined.

          Fenris balked at that, mouth curling at the mention of the Circle’s Magi. “They’re always in trouble, and you’re always rushing to their rescue. I must see to this, today. It cannot wait.”

          Garrett drew himself up, words tainted with frustration and weariness, “They’re in real danger, Fenris. Meredith is abusing her power, rendering the weakest of them Tranquil. It’s not right. I have to be there to help as I can.”

          “You would deny me your help, instead choosing to rush to the aid of Mages?” Fenris hissed, his own tiredness and worry coloring his words and leaving a foul taste in his mouth.

          “You’re a capable man, Fenris. With friends that would aid you, where they have none. Either face it yourself or wait until I have more than a second to breathe to help you.”

          Anger threaded through the words and Fenris took a step back as if he’d been struck. Hawke, shocked at his own words took a step forward raising his hands as if to soothe the hurt he had caused. They were interrupted when Orana stepped back into the kitchen with his garments and staff, Fenris took the opportunity to nod at Hawke and sweep from the room. Fear, apprehension and anger clawing at him as he made his way to their bedroom. Behind him he could hear Garrett try and speak, but he only sped up. Unwilling to forgive the man for his refusal and words just yet.

          He slammed the door closed behind himself, bracing against the wood and breathing harshly. Down in the foyer he could hear Hawke talking lowly to either Orana or Bodahn before the door leading to Hightown opened and closed swiftly. Fenris turned to the room and began pulling on his armor, body stiff with anger and anxiety. He looked at it for a moment before strapping the Blade of Mercy his back and pulling himself together.

          He looked back at the room for a moment, before striding to the door and opening it.

          He pulled the letter that Varania had sent, scowling at it before letting it fall from his hands to the floor.

         “Venhedis…”

 

***

 

          He went first to Anders, only to find the Healer swamped patients. A virus had swept through Darktown and he was elbow deep in vomit, piss and sweating bodies. He had only spent a moment with the Mage, informing him that he was going to the Hanged Man on an urgent errand. And if he could get away he would appreciate the help on resolving the matter. Anders’ had gestured wildly at the crush of people in his clinic with an apology, promising to meet him there as soon as his assistants showed up. Fenris had shrugged and thanked him before trekking back up the stairs and out to Hightown.

          Sebastian had been busy with Chantry work, a meeting with the Grand Cleric and Fenris merely muttered that he understood and moved on. Trailing morosely through the Chantry and down to the steps that led to Lowtown.

          Merrill was not an option, Varric and Isabella were most likely with Hawke and Aveline had Guard duty. Which left him alone and unaided. He bowed his head in frustration and cursed himself for leaving it until the last day. Feet carrying him to the Hanged Man as he ranted at himself. For both his error of procrastination and for his fight with Garrett that morning. He rested his head against the roughhewn door of the Tavern and mentally drew himself together before opening it and entering the pub.

 

***

 

          As it was still early yet, the usual patrons hadn’t managed to pull themselves out of the previous night’s hangovers, leaving the Tavern mostly empty. Corff gave him a tired wave, dirty rag sweeping over the bar, Norah beside him cleaning mugs and buffing the dirt from them. He nodded to them and made his way through the filthy room.

          He spotted her before she ever managed to see him. Red hair pulled tightly into an austere bun atop her head. Her skin slightly fairer than his own, dressed simply in a day dress. Her fingers played with a tankard, nose scrunched. Probably from the putrid smell that lingered no matter how much Norah scrubbed. He watched her for a moment before moving to join her. Varania’s face slipped through a variety of emotions before settling on shock as she took him in. Green eyes tracing the Lyrium that stood out in sharp relief on his face, neck and arms.

          “It is you…” She whispered, eyes wide with shock.

          “I…” Fenris murmured, “I remember you, we used to play in our Master’s courtyard while Mother worked…you called me…” He faltered as he was inundated with the crush of memories clamoring in his mind. Memories of before the Lyrium, a small red-haired elf-child laughing as they threw oranges back and forth, the same child chasing after him as they were called to evening meal. He shook his head, fingers rubbing at his temples as he fought to make sense of the images.

          His head lifted when Varania spoke again.

          “Leto, that’s your name.” She bit her lip and bowed her head. He stared at her, head cocking at her actions.

          “What’s wrong? Why are you so…” She cowered from him, and he began to stand, confused ever further.

          He felt the wave of magic against his skin, familiar magic. He looked up in panic and watched as Danarius and his entourage emerged at the head of the stairs. He snarled and stood, hand reaching for his sword as he backed away from his former Master.

          “Ah, my little Fenris. Predictable as always.” The tone was mirthful, at odds with the bored and cold expression on Danarius’ face.

          He recoiled at the words, blade rising as he panicked. Harsh breaths dragging from him as he stepped back again.

         “I’m sorry it came to this, Leto,” Varania’s movement to his left drew his attention and he turned on her.

          “You led him here!” He bellowed, Lyrium flaring with each word. She took a step back away from him to stand beside Danarius. He seethed as she spoke, fury shaking him as the realization of her betrayal solidified in his mind.

          “Now, now, Fenris. Don’t blame your sister. She did what any good Imperial citizen should.” Fenris turned on him, flinching internally as the cold, dead grey eyes assessed him. He bared his teeth and sank into position. Danarius continued to move forward, his guards flanking him as he stepped ever closer.

          “I never wanted these filthy markings, Danarius! But I won’t let you kill me to get them.” He growled, watching as Danarius sighed in mock exasperation. The foot soldiers he had brought moved out around him. He couldn’t keep his eyes on all of them. He desperately wished that Hawke was here.

          The laugh that Danarius let out was hair raising, malicious intent all too clear in it.

          “Oh, how little you know, my little wolf.” He looked around, as if he was looking for someone.

          “All alone?” He smirked though it didn’t reach his eyes. “A pity. And all the reports made it seem like you had an abundance of allies.”

          His heart thudded painfully in his rib cage, grip tightening on his sword pommel. It was a thinly veiled threat, and it jarred him to know that he and his companions had been watched.

          “Surely your Garrett wouldn’t have let you come by yourself. The reports made it seem like he was quite invested in you, a new master perhaps?”

          “I am no Slave, Danarius.” He raged, feet shifting as he tried to keep his eyes on both the soldiers and the magister.

          His former Master clucked his tongue, mouth twisting with a scowl. “The word is “Master”.” The words were ground out, before he regained himself and stepped back lightly.

          Behind him the door cracked open, a howling gust of late winter wind billowing through the Tavern. His heart rose as he allowed himself a quick look, surprise washing through him as Anders ran in. The Mage skidded to a quick stop as he surveyed the room, the tension making him cagey. He looked to Fenris in question as he slowly made his way to his side, the Elf merely shook his head and kept his eyes on Danarius.

          “Ah, so it seems you _have_ found yourself a new Master. It just wasn’t Hawke.” The Magister said, clicking his fingers watching as his troops advanced on the two.

          That caught Anders’ attention, which in turn caught Justice’s. The flaring of Fade-Blue the only warning he got before they both leapt into combat mode. Swinging his sword and phasing as much as he dared, he knew he couldn’t rely on the Lyrium or his own stamina for long and was doing his best to make the most of it. He caught sight of Anders, Justice crackling along his skin as he wove his spells, mouth shouting as he cast.

          “ ** _NOT A SLAVE. NO LONGER…_** ” Was the most he could make out, over the clanging of swords and the cacophony of magic crackling through the air.

          But they were outnumbered, four to one. And he was tiring.

          He heard the Mage scream out and turned in time to watch as a soldier brought Anders to his knees. Staff in two, blood seeping from a wound in his side as fingers scrabbled at it, trying to heal. The flares of Justice slowly died, and honey brown eyes met his amidst the battle.

          He took out the man in front of his, wincing as the burns of Lyrium trailed his skin. Like time had stood still, he watched as they clapped Anders in enchanted cuff, his magic fizzling before going out. A pommel of a sword came down on the Mage’s head and he was out like a light, Fenris screaming his name as arms grabbed and held him. He tried phasing but it wouldn’t come. He was out of time, sword heavy in his hand. A blunt object crashed into the back of his head and he went down like a stone, feeling them jostling him into manacles before he was dragged along. They threw him into the back of a wagon, the last image was of the lanky form of Anders’ being tossed in beside him.

          The darkness in its all consuming manner ate at him until he succumbed.

 

***

 

          That night bone tired and heart sore Hawke made his way up to Hightown, murmuring to himself as he slowly walked the familiar path to his Estate. Trying to come up with some way to apologize to Fenris for the angry words he had said to him, for not going with him. He’d hurt him, his sharp words spoken out of uncharacteristic anger. He rubbed the palm of his hand against his forehead. He could only hope that Fenris would listen to him, and allow him to apologize. He’d make it up to him, somehow.

          He opened the door, frowning slightly at the darkened fireplace just beyond the entrance hall.

          Odd…

         Fenris was usually still awake, even at this hour. He made his way through the Foyer, moving to the kitchen and the bathing room to poke his head in. Empty…

         Confused he made his way up the stairs to their bedroom. His hand pushed at the door as he peered into the dark room, there was no form of the Elf on the bed and his chair was empty. A skittering noise caught his attention as he stepped in, eyes looking down to see a crumpled sheet of paper. Maybe he’d left a note?

         His eyes scanned the contents, heart beating rapidly as he read. Wheeling on his heels he rushed for the stairs only to hear the heavy clanging of a fist on the door. He ran for it, pulling it open to see Varric standing on his step puffing for breath.

         “Fenris he’s…”

         “Some bastard Magister..”

         They started together, before stopping and looking at each other.

         “Varric…what happened?” His heart pounded with fear as the dwarf took a breath and started again.

         “I got back to the Hanged Man, and there were bodies littered everywhere. Corff was in a panic, apparently Fenris had come to meet his sister and was ambushed by his old Master. Hawke, Anders went to help. They’ve been taken.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part Two Should be up sometime today...once I've slept...
> 
> The last chapter was disappointing, but I hope this makes up for it? No? Okay...
> 
> Hawke...damnit, listen to the poor man...Maker
> 
> From here on out it's almost AU, I'll be using the timeline that's set in the games but...in my own way.
> 
> Brace yourselves guys...


	15. Alone: Part Two (Benedictions and Recollections)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm late, I slept all day and then had to get food...
> 
> Better late than never, right?
> 
> Be strong.

          Groggy eyes opened slowly, the image blurry and gritty. A pain searing the back of his head, hands in manacles that didn’t have enough give for him to feel at the wound. His mouth was dry, feeling as if it was stuffed with cotton. He smacked his lips and ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, careful to keep the metal from scratching at his skin. When they were clear of dirt and sleep he looked around, taking in the dank cell that he was locked. Shoulders slumping as the memory of what had transpired in the Tavern came to him.

          A nagging thought tugging his attention, Anders…where was Anders? The fuzzy memory of the Mage’s lank form being thrown into the wagon beside him causing him to scan the cell again. There!

          The limp form of the Mage was half buried under dirty straw and kicked up dirt. He half-crawled to the man, fingers digging into his shoulder and shaking him.

          “Anders, Anders!” Whispering to hopefully keep the guards from realizing he was awake. The man moaned as he prodded, shackled hands coming up to bat his own. He shook harder, breath choking in his throat as he tried to wake his friend.

          Finally Anders turned and sat up, swaying as he did so. He lifted his head slowly, fingers curling in Fenris’ tunic as he swayed. Face a violent shade of green, sweat sheening on his face in the low light of a torch.

          “Anders, are you hurt?” He scrabbled at the Mage’s robes with his free hand, going for the bloody rip on the right side. An ugly red mark was all that was left of the bleeding gash he remembered Anders’ having suffered. He’d managed to heal most of it before being knocked unconscious. The Elf sighed in relief and scooted them back against a wall, dragging the Mage when it became clear Anders’ couldn’t, or wouldn’t move.

          He was mumbling lowly, mouth agape and eyes wide. His hands were patting at the hands around his middle as Fenris got them settled. Anders in the lee of his legs as he rested against the wall. He patted awkwardly at the man’s shoulders, unsure of how to comfort him.

          “Mage, listen to me. Listen!” His voice rose minutely, loud in the emptiness of the holding cell. He pressed his lips to the shell of Anders’ ear and tightened his hold on the man’s middle.

          “What are you feeling right now? Can you cast? Justice, can you hear me?” He was grasping at straws, desperate enough to call out to the Spirit. The man in his arms let out a juddering breath, leaning his head back to lean against Fenris’ shoulder, throat clicking as he struggled to speak.

          “Magebane, no magic. He can hear you, but these manacles…they’re warded. He’s trapped.” His heart clenched painfully as the man spoke. His head bowing to press his forehead to the Mage’s shoulder, hands curling ever tighter in the fabric of Anders’ robes.

          “Fenris…where are we?” The words were more timid than he’d ever heard the loquacious man be and he dithered with how to explain their current predicament.

          “As to the exact place, I am unsure.” He admitted finally, “Who has us, and where we are headed is another matter.” It felt like his tongue was too thick to form the words and his vision blurred as panic swept through him, body beginning to quake. A hand took his and he pressed his face into Anders’ neck, seeking comfort and reassurance. With little forth coming due to the man’s state, his façade broke and he began to cry.

          “Danarius, my old Master has us. And I expect we’ll be traveling to Minrathous. Anders…” His voice cracked on the man’s name, his body shaking in time with the heaving sobs that wracked him. “I’m so sorry, if I hadn’t hav-,”

          He was shushed violently by a hand clapped to his mouth, the Mage moving faster than he’d have thought possible in his state. Eyes burning with anger, burning through the herbs that were clouding his vision and mind. He hissed as Fenris tried to continue his apology, strong fingers keeping his mouth pinned.

          “S’not your fault. You didn’t know, and I followed willingly.” He said, forehead pressing against Fenris’ as he spoke. The light in his eyes dying as the drugs pumping in his system regained their hold and he slumped into the Elf’s arms tiredly.

          “What’s going to happen to us?” He asked, words slurred slightly as he fought to keep his eyes open. Fenris bowed his head, shaking it slightly.

          “I don’t…I don’t know Anders.”

 

***

 

          They were kept in the cell for Maker only knew how long, whispering to each other and keeping close contact to keep calm. Anders nodding off when the effects of the magebane became too much to handle, nestled in the crook of Fenris’ arm. The Elf was too apprehensive to close his eyes. Every sound that echoed in the hall beyond the cell making him flinch.

          Danarius was too cruel a man to leave them down here for long. It was only a matter of time before they were pulled out and displayed for his twisted enjoyment. The guard changed at intervals, without a window to gauge the light of the sun he was left with no idea of the time. He wasn’t even sure how long they had been held already, or how far they had been taken from Kirkwall.

          He spent what felt like hours on what ifs and if I had only’s, berating himself over and over for involving Anders. For not informing Hawke as to what was going on. He cried himself dry, the tears drying up as he mentally prepared himself for what was to come.

          For Anders and himself, both. Whatever Danarius had in store for them, he had to pull himself together. Their lives depended on it. His mind was fogged with the need to submit, the only sure way he knew how to survive being enslaved. He looked down at the sleeping Mage in his arms, and he steeled himself. Fenris would make sure that Anders made it out of this mess of his.

          He leaned back against the stone of the wall, shifting slightly to try and find a more comfortable position. As riled as he was, sleep soon took him, the steady breath of Anders a soothing rhythm that he matched unconsciously, lulling him into slumber.

 

***

 

          The clanging of the door opening jarred him wake, the Mage in his arms jolting as the cage was opened. Four guards entered the cramped cell, and they were pulled to their feet. Anders crying out as he was ripped from Fenris’ hold. The Elf was silent, a hand rising to quiet the Mage. Anders’ wide eyes held his for a brief moment before he was hauled back and pressed against the wall. Fenris kept his eyes down, head bowed submissively as they held his arms tightly. His entire demeanor shrank as he heard Anders crying out. Protesting whatever they were doing to him, he called out to Fenris. Wailing cries that hammered at the Elf. It gurgled to a halt, as his mouth was filled. The resounding silence as the Magebane took hold.

          A tray was brought in and placed in a corner with a small flagon. An order was barked and the hands holding Fenris dropped. The unit left as quickly as they had come, slamming the door behind them and locking it with a loud thunk. He waited for a moment before raising his head slightly and looking around.

          Anders was on his knees, no strength to hold himself up. A purpling bruise on his cheek, his nose bloodied from his struggle. His eyes were clouded with the effects of the Magebane once more. Fenris moved slowly, as to not startle Anders. Hands up as he shuffled closer. The man looked at him, but didn’t seem to completely see him.

          “Anders?” He said lowly, hands coming to rest on heaving shoulders.  The Mage looked at him, face white with fear, nostrils flaring in panic. He moved closer, sinking to his knees and wrapping his arms around the man. The form in his arms trembled as it relaxed, and he again pulled the man to sit in between his legs, hand smoothing through his hair. Trying his best to calm him.

          The food caught his attention and he dragged it forward. A bowl of porridge, hard tack, a wedge of cheese and…his nose scrunched in disgust. Fish. He hated fish. Lifting the flagon he sniffed it delicately, water. Maneuvering Anders, he brought the pitcher to his own lips and took a small sip, grimacing as he swallowed. He moved the lip of it to Anders’ mouth and helped him sip also. He felt awful when he had to pull the flagon from the Mage’s mouth.

          They had to be careful with what little they had. Who knew when Master would deign to feed them again. He cracked a biscuit in his hand and slowly fed first Anders, then himself. Though he didn’t want to, he moved to the fish, picking at it. Mouth downturned in disgust before offering a piece to the Mage who refused, smiling at the look of repulsion on Anders’ face as he in turn tried to choke down the cold, slimy flesh. He swallowed and screwed his face up and tried not to vomit it back up.

          They worked through more of the hard tack, dipping it into the bowl of bland porridge to help soften it. The cheese was bypassed almost completely, hard and nigh un-chewable. Anders had smothered a laugh as he had tried to bite into it, only for the wedge to crumble into pebble sized chunks. It had been returned to the tray with a thunk and ignored.

          “Fenris, this…” The Mage was contemplative, eyebrows drawn over his dimmed eyes. The Elf patiently waited, he had a feeling he knew what Anders was going to ask, and had been mentally preparing for it.

          “If we’re to survive this,” He swallowed hard, hands clenching on Fenris’ own, “Show me? Teach me, help me!” The hands moved, fingers tightening into claws that drug at his temples, his hair. The Elf grasped at his wrists, pulling them down and into Anders’ lap before moving from where he was seated and pulling himself around to face the Mage.

          “Anders, this isn’t the Circle. It’s not just holding your tongue, not when you might be required to speak, or not speak or say certain things. It’s not that simple. Following Circle rules will seem like child’s play, every move you make, he’ll be watching. This kind of, of…obedience and submission isn’t just an act. It’s ingrained, and I can’t teach that to you.” He clapped his hands on the Mage’s cheeks, hands shaking the head between them with their trembling. His eyes bore into the Mage’s, beseeching and imploring as he tried to impress upon Anders the reality they’d found themselves in.

          He stared into the frightened cloudy eyes of his friend, trying desperately to keep from crying. To keep from throwing himself at the bars and howling in his anger, to stop himself from bashing himself at the rock walls in a futile fit of desperation. He pressed his hands to Anders’ cheeks and watched as the man accepted his words. A hard kind of determination flared in his eyes, and somehow seeing that gave Fenris courage.

 

***

          Sorely missing the light of the sun he watched as the soldiers came in for the sixth time. How many hours and days it had been, he couldn’t tell. Anders had stopped fighting them, meekly accepting the vial and downing the contents with little to no prompting. They left trays of food and cleared the remainders of the last, each time the clang of the door sounded like a death sentence being passed. Helpless, utterly dependent on the kindness of Master to continue living. His teeth ground as they huddled in the darkness, sharing food and waiting for their grace period to come to an abrupt end.

          They slept more, to pass the time. Conserving what little energy they got from their rations. Food was split equally, each never taking what the other needed. They found comfort in the other’s presence, Anders curling in his arms, murmurs of half conversations when they couldn’t sleep anymore.

          He told Anders of his life, such as it was. From the time he woke in agony all the way up to when they had first met in Kirkwall. Detailing the life he had lived under Master’s rule, the way he had felt when living among the Fog Warriors. His horror when he was released from the Magic that compelled him to murder them. Anders listened, hands running along his arms. Offering what scant comfort that he could.

          Anders told him of his life, in return. Of being discovered by his father, of the barn he had accidentally set fire to. The fear that had swept the village, of the sound of Templars coming to take him away. He spoke wistfully of the pillow his mother had placed into his arms, hands clenching around air as if he could remember the touch, weight and smell of it just through memory alone. His silence as he was brought to Kinloch Hold, of being introduced to the other apprentices and speaking nary a word. How he became known as Anders, simply because that was where his family had lived before resettling in Ferelden.

         “Anders isn’t your actual name?” Fenris had exclaimed, eyebrow lifting in confusion.

          The Mage had laughed at his expression before shaking his head.

          “No, well…no. My father had a strong Anders accent. He told them my name before we left. They probably just didn’t understand what he said, and came to their own conclusion because I wouldn’t tell them my name.” He chuckled at the memory.

          “Then…what is your true name?” The Elf had asked, smiling as he watched the Mage laugh.

          “Hmmm, if I tell you will you mock me I wonder?” Light teasing, more alert that he’d seen the Mage in what felt like days.

          “I’ll tell you mine, if you share yours.” He said haughtily.

          “Deal.” He let out a breath, “You’ll be the first to know, not even Hawke knows.” The name cracked as he spoke it before clearing his throat and fiddled with his filthy robes.

          “It’s…Alessander.” He muttered, biting his lip firmly to keep from cracking a grin. “They weren’t far off, just…not completely right either. And I liked Anders. It was a clear sign of where I was from.” He looked up at the Elf and raised an eyebrow. “Our deal, Messere?”

          “Right, right. Well before you burst in, my si-… _She_ told me that I was called Leto, once.” He said, biting back at his words, unwilling to classify the woman who had betrayed them as family. Anders patted at his hand before continuing his story.

          Fenris listened with great interest, the man had a way with words. Maybe not to the extent that Varric had, but all the same he wove a compelling story.

          Daring adventures as he escaped time after time, only to be caught and dragged back. The story turned wistful not long after he had detailed his sixth escape. Karl Thekla. His ears twitched as he tried to place the name, and where he had heard it before.

          “He’s the Mage we tried to save from the Gallows, shortly before we met you. But…” Anders took a shaky breath before releasing it and bowing his head. “They made him Tranquil. They found the letters we had been sending each other, and laid a trap for me. Almost got Hawke and I captured, but Justice intervened.” Voice cracking again as he spoke of his passenger.

          “Magebane cuts off your mana and Fade connection for a time, he’s sleeping.” He explained as Fenris cocked his head at the mention of the Spirit.

          “And if something were to, disrupt it?” He asked, thinking furiously.

          “It would take time, but he could be…persuaded to wake.” Anders said, teeth baring in a smile. His lips curled in response.

          “We’re getting ahead of ourselves for now though, continue.” Fenris said, shifting his position before settling back again.

          He explained that when they had moved Karl, he had tried to follow. Escaping for the seventh and final time. His plan had been to head to Highever and board a ship for Kirkwall. But the Blight had ravaged Ferelden and he was forced back south and then out east. Finally finding himself in Amaranthine and searching for a way out to the Free Marches. Only to find himself trapped as Templars caught up to him.

          They had marched him back out of the city and had taken cover in Vigil’s Keep as yet another sweep of Dark Spawn had overrun the countryside.

          “Best damn decision, ever. They put me in a cell at first, and then it was enchanted manacles. There were Dark Spawn everywhere, people screaming and fighting. Utter chaos. My keepers were cut down by Dark Spawn and I was just finishing off the last of them. I’d fished the key off off one of the Knights, when the door slammed open and this woman in full Warden Armor comes barging in.” He took a breath and smiled at the memory before continuing. “Turns out she was the new Warden Commander, and the Queen of the new King of Ferelden. She gave me a choice to fight with her, or to flee. I was intrigued, so I stayed. She was one hell of a Warrior, bold and fierce. Cut a bloody swathe through the Keep and claimed it for her own.”

          Fenris watched with bated breath as the man became more animated in his story telling. Hands gesticulating wildly as he spoke, eyes far off as if he was reliving the memory.

          “Once the Keep was hers there was this ruckus at the gates, and we marched down to see what was going on. King Alistair had come to visit, flanked with his guard and Templars. I thought they were going to hand me over, Templar-Knight whats-her-name, I forget, goes off on a tangent on how I’m a murdering heathen apostate who must be punished. But the Warden Commander intervened, conscripted me right out from under their noses with the blessing of King Alistair. A whole bunch of nonsense later, talking dark spawn, crazy Dalish Keepers, and a full out War with two Tribes of Dark Spawn and here I am.”

          “Talking Dark Spawn?”

          “Nu-uh. Not talking about that, not right now. Not today, hopefully not ever.” Anders said, laying back against Fenris’ side and settling down.

          “I’ll leave it for now, Mage. But when we’ve managed to make it back to Kirkwall, I want full details.” The Elf said, smirking at the aggrieved expression that Anders pulled.

          “Do you…do you think we’ll be able to make it back?” He asked, voice low and threaded with fear.

          “I will never stop trying to get us back there, Mage. I promise.”

 

***

 

          They were jolted from sleep as the door to cell door opened again. He waited for them to pin him against a wall and force Anders to down the vial of Magebane. But no one stepped in. Instead Varania stood just beyond the door, head held high and waiting for them to look up.

          “Master Danarius has called for you. Come.”

          They spared only a glance at each other before climbing to their feet and hobbling after her.

          Apprehension bit at him as they marched along the long corridors of a Slaver Den, he memorized the route they took. It could be useful when they made an attempt at escape. Anders leant heavily against his side, weak from the Magebane and short supply of food. Down the halls and up a set of steps and into an Antechamber.

          Master was seated on a dais, sipping something from a chalice as he watched them enter. Fenris dared only the shortest of glances beneath his fringe as he kept his head bowed. A touch to the Mages neck to remind him to keep his eyes to the floor as they were led to the edge of the dais. Fenris knelt quickly, pulling the Mage down with him and prostrating himself at the feet of the Master.

          He waited for Master to speak, still and submissive. He had no doubts he would soon be getting a taste of his Master’s ire. And he trembled in the knowledge that Anders would have to bear witness to it.

          Beside him he felt Anders quaking, and he wished he could reach for his hand. To comfort, soothe. But any movement without express permission would put Anders in danger. He waited, drawing in each breath, holding it before slowly releasing it. The man above him shifted in his seat, the cup clicking as it was placed on a tray. The soft whisper of someone stepping away from the platform.

          “Varania?”

          He flinched as Master spoke. Fighting to stay on his knees, face pressed to the cold stone of the room.

          “Yes, Master Danarius?”

          Teeth grinding as he heard her speak.

          “What is the punishment for slaves who run?”

          “Thirty lashes, Master.”

          “Is that all?” Feigned curiosity, a taunting quality that ribbed at him. He closed his eyes and counted in his head, fighting to keep his calm demeanor. Beside him Anders’ fidgeted, and he clamped his hand on the stone so as not to reach out to him to still him.

          “Thirty for running, five for each year they hide, Master.” Was her quickly corrected response, Master grunting with acknowledgement.

          “That would make, oh, what nearly six years?” Master’s voice was sharp, a sick kind of glee lacing the words. The creaking of the chair alerted him that Master was standing, and his body tensed. A hand was placed upon his head, fingers ensnaring into the locks and pulling him to his feet. He went quickly, internalizing the hiss of pain that threatened to escape him.

          “Isn’t that right, my little wolf?” Master’s face pressed in close and Fenris struggled to keep his tongue. Eye fixed demurely on the floor as he waited for a command.

          “Speak!” A hand flying out caught him on his cheek and his head snapped to the side with the impact. He shifted his head to look at the floor again.

          “Yes, Master.”

          “Oh! It’s Master now isn’t it!? Not so cocky now, are you pet?” Another slap, his cheek stinging.

          “No, Master.”

          “Janus, come here.” The clanking of armor echoed in the expanse of the room, coming to stop right in front of the Elf.

          “Every time I motion you will beat him. Understood?” A nod, that he caught the motion of through his fringe. Chest heaving as he gathered himself for the first strike.

          “Now, I do believe we were talking about your lashes. A beginning of the retribution that I am owed for having to search most of Thedas for you.”

          A fist to his cheek, he barely managed to remain on his feet. The sharp points of the metal digging into his skin.

          “Furthermore, the expense that you have garnered is quite extensive.” The next punch caught him in the belly, and he doubled over as it hit home. Breath wheezing out of him as he stumbled to right himself.

          “Filthy place, Kirkwall.” This was muttered as an aside before Master continued, “Not to mention the inconvenience of now having to travel all the way back to Minrathous by land. The Waking Sea is no place for proper travel in the dead of winter.”

          A pummeling of fists drove him to his knees, his arms limp at his sides as he let the man punch him. Eyes just high enough to see Anders’ horrified face just beyond Janus’ legs. He could feel blood streaming from the multiple lacerations that the gauntlets had left and his nose was gushing, likely broken if the lancing pain was anything to go by.

          “Stop, stop, stop.” Master’s voice carried, and the blows slowed then stopped. The click of heels on the floor was his only way of knowing where Master was.

          “He’s not _feeling_ it. Magnus, come. Help Janus restrain him, that pillar there should do. Bring his Abomination, I want him to watch.” Fenris felt hands grasp at his biceps as they dragged him across the floor to the pillar that dominated the center of the room, his hand was unchained for just a moment before the manacle was slipped back on. His hands were raised far above his head, his feet skittering on the floor, trying desperately to find a foot hold on his toes.

          He could hear the cry of Anders as he was moved, the pillar the only thing he could see and he was thankful for it. He couldn’t bear to watch as Anders’ suffered, each pained cry a reminder that if not for him, Anders’ would still be in Kirkwall.

          “Thirty lashes for running, thirty for hiding, and fifteen for inconvenience and cost.” Master said from behind him, “And for every cry he lets out, there will be two for his Abomination.”

          Fenris froze, he’d had lashes before but never silent, and never with the threat of someone else’s suffering should he cry. He struggled at the chains, breathing whistling through his mouth as he began to hyperventilate.

          He heard the test crack of the whip, snapping just beside his ear and he bit down on his lip, forcing his body to relax. Being tense would only make it hurt more. The whip snapped a couple more times, in various places, not hitting just warming up. This was no untrained Overseer, this person had an adept knowledge of a whip and was showing him just how much control they wielded over it.

          He leaned his head against his hands and cleared his mind, searching something to focus on.

          “Illya, you may begin.”

          ‘ _Blessed are they who stand before, The corrupt and wicked and do not Falter…_ ’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit...I'm sorry, so sorry...
> 
> I dithered so long on what I wanted Anders' name to be, but this one caught my eye on my sixth baby name site. Alessander, from the name Alexander.
> 
> Which means Defender of Men. And it just...fit Anders so well. A Grey Warden, A Healer. Just generally a good man.
> 
> Magnus, Janus and Illya are names I chose off the top of my head, it was only after I used them I realized..
> 
> Danarius  
> Magnus  
> Janus
> 
> Lots of -us'es.
> 
> Well.. they're modeled after Rome/Italy..so why not. >_>;;;;
> 
> I'm escaping off to sleep before you all tie me up and demand answers... XD


	16. Alone: Part Three (Transfigurations and Judgment)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I know I've said it before but please...please for the love of the Maker take heed.
> 
> This chapter is dark, abusive and hard to swallow.
> 
> I will be listing the trigger warnings in the bottom notes, do not proceed without reading them unless you are absolutely sure you can handle it.

          Anders watched as the woman, Illya, raised the whip, tongue catching between teeth when it came down. Fenris flinched, head tossing back as it bit into his skin. His hands clenched on the chain that held his manacles, toes dancing along the stones as he swayed. Not a sound was uttered, the raising welt of the whip mark standing in bright relief amid his dark skin. It hadn’t broken skin, the scourge was raised again and it sang as it rent the air.

          Two.

          He wasn’t afraid of receiving lashes for Fenris’ cries of pain. Instead he was frightened of the amount of lashes that the Elf would receive. Anders’ had been whipped his fair share of times, punishments for escaping the Circle. He knew the bite of thin leather, knew that too many lashes at once on any one part of a person could, and would, flay them alive. Not daring to look up at the man that Fenris called Master, his anger burned for the monster that caused such suffering.

          Three.

          Sweat shone on Fenris’ back, intermingling with the driblets of blood that were beading from the strokes. His muscles jumping under his skin as the whip came down ever faster. Illya was hitting her stride, grunting with the force she was exerting. The corded weapon whistling through the air as she let it fly, the thinnest part snapping against slick skin. Teeth bit harder at his tongue, eyes unwavering as he was forced to watch them torture Fenris.

          Four.

          A hand rubbed through his hair, and he froze as it curled through it. Fingers tugged at the thong that kept his mop from his face, tearing it and strands of hair from his scalp. He kept his face smooth, eyes never leaving Fenris. The hand dragged through his tresses before coming to rest on his neck, curling possessively. Terror gnawing at him as it moved to caress his skin. Swallowing hard, mouth dry. Cold sweat blooming over his body as the movement gentled, soft touches that may as well have been with sandpaper for the feeling it evoked within him. Disgust as it moved to his cheek, eyes still on the Elf. Refusing to give him a reason to punish either of them further.

          “My Fenris chose such a soft little Mageling, foolish wolf.” Humor lacing the words as the hand continued its stroking. Breath was coming in pants, sweaty palms rubbing over his thighs as he fought to stay in place. Familiar, too familiar. The soft touches, the gentle tones that lulled until the guard came down and then…

          He gagged as remembered memories washed through him. A dark cell, desperation, loneliness…so alone… The kind tones of Templars that brought him his meals, the secret touches that served to ground him. Whimpering when left again in the darkness, calling for someone, anyone.

          A hand clapping to his mouth as his stomach lurched, air being forced in and out of his nose as he struggled to keep his stomach contents down.

          Large hands that pinned him down, stripped him bare. Bruises of too tight fingers, hand prints that littered his pale skin. The pain as they used him, laughter as he screamed. The filthy remnants that were left behind as they tucked themselves away, tossing him his food and leaving him alone again. The darkness that taunted him, seeing forms in the blackness that hounded his sleep and soured his appetite. Repeat visits that broke him, carving him…scarring him.

 

***

          Not seeming to realize, or just not caring, the disturbance he had caused, Danarius continued to stroke the man kneeling at his feet. The Abomination was quite pretty, reddish blonde hair framing a pale freckled face. Tall and lithely muscled, a man still in his prime. Fenris had always had an eye for pretty things. Though why he had merged with such weak-willed Mage was puzzling, regardless of the allure of a pretty face. He moved his hands back to the Mage’s hair and tightened his grip on a handful of the locks. A hiss of pain as he used his handhold to physically turn the man and tip his head back. A pink flash of a tongue licking along the seam of his lips caught his attention, and he smirked in thought, eyes lifting to the Elf that was restrained at the pillar. Another punishment was in order, one that would cause his little wolf more anguish than just a flogging. He kept his hold, using it to drag the man back to the dais to kneel before the chair he sat himself on. Smiling as red rimmed, fearful eyes looked up to him. They were always so pretty when they cried.

 

***

 

          He knew what was coming, the gleeful smirk of Danarius was a terrible thing to behold. Behind him he could hear the continued sounds of a whip striking flesh, and he cowered before the Demon in Magister’s clothing. Anders’ pushed at his panic, fighting to remain stoic. The acidic taste of bile at the back of his throat choked him, the well of despair leaving him cold and near frozen as he was beckoned forward. Stiff knees carried him the mere inches from man’s lap. A sigh of exasperation and a harsh grip caught his chin, lifting his face to look into Danarius’. Anders’ flinched as his eyes caught grey eyes, shuddering at the hollowness of them. Hands propped up on the arms of the chair as he was tugged ever further.

          “You know what I want, and you’ll do it. With no complaints.” Danarius murmured, thumb moving to drag across his lips.

          A moment of boldness, reckless and mulish, overcame him and he jerked his head from the grip. Humorless grin pulling his lips in a mockery of a smile.

          “And why is that?” Anders’ sneered, lip curling in disgust.

          The blow he received was quick, head snapping to the side and leaving him breathless. Clawed fingers dug into his jaw and yanked his head back, the enraged face scant inches from his own. He recoiled in the face of such anger, fear overtaking him once more.

          “You’ll do as you’re bid,” Grey eyes lifted over his head towards Fenris, and Anders shook with rage and trepidation. “Or he will stand in your place, half dead or no. After which my entire Legion will have use of him. Do you understand?” The steely cold of his gaze returned to him, and in the grip that held him he nodded. Danarius sat back in his chair, gesturing to his lap.

          “You may begin.”

          Swallowing hard, as pinpricks of tears stung the corner of his eyes he leaned forward and began unlatching the clasps of the front of intricate robes. Breathing through his nose, and trying to contain his shaking.

          His mind tortured itself, as he manipulated the Magister’s flesh. Skin crawling as he fondled, ears burning with shame. He’d made a choice, to obey. His mouth dry as he lowered it, licking and choking as his head was pressed down far too fast. Tears streaking his face as he whored himself, he’d had a choice. And he’d chosen to be used.

          For Fenris, for himself, for their survival.

 

***

 

          He’d lost count of the lashes back in the teens. Pain muddling his mind, concentrating only on keeping the running litany of the Chant flowing through is head. Lips clenched tightly to keep any noise to himself. He hadn’t slipped yet, but there were some near misses. Each strike was carefully placed, from knee to shoulder blade. Never hitting exactly the same place twice. On one hand he was grateful, he’d be a bloody flayed mess already if they had been. On the other, it would mean a greater span of injuries to tend to, once it was over.

          ‘ _My Maker, know my heart:_ ’

          Fenris could hear Master talking, but the words were incoherent, the cracking of the whip was too loud to discern them. The coppery tang of blood was filling his mouth, he’d bitten too hard on his tongue first and had nearly loped the tip off. Rivulets of blood and spittle eked from his mouth, he couldn’t bring himself to swallow the vile fluid. Another strike, just barely keeping his lips closed as it touched on an area that had fissured earlier in the session. The flayed skin burning as sweat dribbled into it, the rip in his flesh seemed to open further with this new hit.

          ‘ _Take me from my life of sorrow_ ’

          Each hit came faster now, as if the woman would never tire. He kept his head bowed, leaning it heavily against his arms. His shoulders were screaming, dead weight pulling cruelly on the joints. Fenris would be lucky if he didn’t manage to dislocate his shoulder on top of his lashing. Ears twitching as the elevated voice of Master reached him, not a moment later Anders’ replied and his heart sank. There was no hint of subservient caution in his retort, biting tones that frightened Fenris. The Mage would get himself killed if he continued. Straining to hear what was going on he was caught unawares when the next crack struck. Losing his control he let out a harsh, choking cry of pain before he bit his lip and silenced himself.

          He had to focus, lest both of them be beaten to death.

 

***

 

          He’d never been quite so thankful for the fog that Magebane caused. It allowed him to sink into himself, to pretend for the moment. Anders kept his eyes closed, finding it easier to be enveloped in the numbness that surrounded his mind. Careful to keep enough of his attention on what he was doing, but letting the rest of himself just…float. He was somewhere safe, with someone who loved him, who he cared for. The hands on the base of his neck were kind, gentle, loving.

          His mouth worked at flesh he couldn’t feel, allowing himself to be pushed down upon it. Breathing when he was allowed to pull back, choking as he was pushed again. Retreating into his own mind as the violation of his person tore at his pride, shame welling in his belly and ricocheting with barbs that left gaping holes in his mind. Bleeding wounds that wouldn’t show when the ordeal was over, but that he would carry in the back of his mind.

          Danarius’ grunts and moans fell on deaf ears, Anders so far in his own mind that nothing was penetrating anymore. He couldn’t hear the crack of the whip nor the jingling of chains that tinkled when the body they held was impacted. His body echoed the numbness of his mind, unfeeling and relaxed as he knelt on the hard, cold stone. No longer feeling the grip of fingers in his hair or the press of knees to his chest. Pulling a veil of blessed disassociation round his fragile state and shielding him from the vicious assault he was enduring.

          Reflex only, spared him from choking on the bitter spend that pulsated into his mouth, pulling back from Master’s grip as he sucked in lungful’s of breath. Eyes glassy as he tilted his head back to look at Master, face smeared with sticky trails and saliva dripping from his abused mouth. Master looked pleased, reaching out to ruffle his hair and running a long finger against the seam of his lips, smearing the mess that coated his chin.

          Sound and feeling came rushing back with that touch, flinching as yet another deafening crack of the whip echoed in the expanse of the room. A cracked cry echoing as it met its target, Ander’s head whipping around to find the source.

          Fenris. Fenris was crying out. He was hurt. Anders shuffled on his knees making to get up, only to be tugged back by the neck of his tattered robe. His airways were constricted for a second before it was released and he could breathe freely once again.

          “Ah ah ah, pet. You’ll remain here, by my side until it is your turn. I do believe you’re owed some lashes next,” Master said, hand returning to his hair and sliding through it, caressing him again.

          He leant back against the arm of the chair, energy sapped and unable to move. The numbness slowly seeping back in as he watched the woman continue to whip Fenris. Watching as the Elf struggled to keep his cries locked away in his chest, back bloody and cracked.

          Justice hummed lowly in his mind, soon he was promised. Soon.

 

***

 

          The woman was beginning to slow, and he could only hope that his punishment was coming to an end. Each lash was less forceful, hard enough to disturb the shredded skin but lacking the strength to cut further. He’d long ago lost the war on his tears. Face a mess of mucus, spittle and the blood that was slowly dripping from his chin to his chest. Fenris swung slowly, too exhausted to try to find a divot in the floor with his toes. Breath harsh and reedy, throat burning with each lungful.

          Grunting as the bite of the whip stung once more, he waited for another…waiting…waiting. When nothing was forthcoming he allowed himself to release his hold on his tongue. Chewed and torn from sharp teeth clenching on it as he took his lashes. A fierce pride welling in his heart, he’d only cried out three times. Seventy five lashes, and he was had held in the pain, the screaming that had threatened to burst forth.

          Master was talking again, he strained to listen but the buzzing in his mind drowned all else out. Hands reached for one of his and unlocked the manacle too fast for him to get ready for it. He dropped from his hold, legs buckling underneath him. There wasn’t a word powerful enough to describe the pain radiating through every particle of his being. He lay on the floor at the mercy of his Master and waited for his judgment.

          Two sets of arms hefted him roughly, and he was dragged along the stone between the two. Concentrating only on keeping his consciousness until he was thrown unceremoniously into the Cell they were being held in. Laying on the packed dirt floor, every extremity screaming at him as he raised his head.

          “Anders?” His voice croaked, chords cracking as he whispered. “Anders?!”

          No answer came, he was alone.

          The familiar darkness was beckoning him and he submitted willingly to it, pain and fear coursing through him in droves. His vision dotted, black motes dancing before his eyes and he gave into it.

          ‘ _Lift me from a World of endless pain…_ ’

 

***

 

          Anders watched as Fenris was dragged away, wanting nothing more than to follow. Blood speckled the floor as he was removed, leading back to a shallow pool that glistened in the torch light. He remained kneeling where he was, waiting.

          A click of fingers echoed and a Soldier came forward, bearing another set of chains. Anders watched as they were handed first to Master for inspection, a nod and they were being locked onto his wrists. Another nod and the ones from his ankles were removed and carried away. Confusion welling but he tamped it down, unwilling to anger Master with his questions. He waited for Master to explain, patient in his fog.

          “These are a very special set, used in the Imperium for Mages like you. Abominations.” He hung his head at the inflection in Master’s tone, renewed shame washing through him as he listened. “They allow the Mage to access only a limited draw of his mana, while stifling the Fade Creature you harbor. You will be permitted to attend to my little wolf through his recuperation.”

          His shoulders slumped as he listened, eyeing the decorative set of shackles that encapsulated his wrists. Etched with runes and enchantments, he could feel his mana beginning to pool and he rejoiced as he was reunited with his magic.

          “You will heal Fenris in return for your obedience. Attempt to use your magic for anything else and the consequences will be dire. Do you understand me, Mageling?” A finger was pushed under his chin to tip is face to look into Master’s. He nodded as he was able, earning a small chuckle and a pat to the head. Master reached out and a pouch was handed to him. He placed that in Ander’s hands, fingers clutching at the purse. The clinking of vials inside catching his attention, flipping the lip of the bag open to find a spread of herbs and vials of elfroot inside.

          “Good, now to my count Fenris had three outbursts. Which total six lashes, a punishment that will be dealt with at a later time. For now, take him back to the cell. I am tired, and we are setting out tomorrow.” A clap of his hands and Anders was grabbed roughly by his arm and hoisted up, clutching the pouch of medicine in his shackled fists. He stumbled along as he was guided from the room.

          “Anders?” He stilled as his name was called, shuffling to face Master.

          “Take care that you do not allow him to scar, for your sake as much as his.”

          With that final warning he was pulled from the room and towards the cell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The trigger warnings for this chapter include:
> 
>  
> 
> Rape (Both past history and present, non explicit rape, but an almost graphic detail of non-consensual oral sex)
> 
> Mental Illness (Dissociation, Repressed Trauma, Beginnings of A Fugue State of Mind)
> 
> Details of Anders' year in Isolation
> 
> Near Graphic Detail of Fenris' Punishment
> 
>  
> 
> This chapter...Jesus...
> 
> I'm hoping to wrap the Alone chapters up within two more chapters, hopefully. I am no longer in control of this story it feels like, I just write what comes.
> 
>  
> 
> For Anders' new manacles:
> 
> I read, re-read every scrap I could find on magebane and magic dampening enchantments. Aside from a Templar smiting the fuck out of the man, this is the only way I feel a Magister would enslave another Mage.
> 
>  
> 
> Where is Hawke and Co. you ask? I have a feeling he'll be in the next chapter, though he's not doing to well I don't think.


	17. Alone: Part Four (Interlude)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is short but I am writing the next chapter at this moment, so...

          A fortnight. Fourteen Maker taken days. That’s how long they’d been tracking them. Two whole weeks and they had little to show for it. Like trying to find a needle in a haystack, or a ring in the sea.

 

***

 

          Varric and he had sprinted back to the Hanged Man to question Corff. Only for the man to state yet again that yes, Fenris had come to meet a woman. Anders had come later, and both of them had been packed up and thown on carts outside the Tavern and that was the las that Corff had seen.

          Anger had gotten the better of him, storming to the man and slamming him into a wooden beam, the entirety of the Tavern going still. Varric had tugged at his arm while he roared, demanding answers the terrorized man hadn’t been able to give. It had taken Isabela and Varric both to drag him off Corff and out of the Tavern. He’d yanked his arms out of their grips and had begun pacing, swearing angrily.

          “Hawke, pull yourself together man. This isn’t going to help.” Varric had said, crossing his arms and moving to stand in his way. “Listen, Isabela and I will get the others, you go pack your shit and meet us in the Market. Okay?”

          He had wanted to argue further with the man, but lacking any other ideas he merely nodded and stomped off. It hadn’t been possible at the time, to discern the myriad of emotions that swirled in him. The time it took to get to his Estate and start packing had helped him corral the emotions and shove them into a corner to sort out later. Feelings weren’t going to help him get Fenris and Anders back any faster.

          Slinging his pack on, he’d hefted his staff and went to tell Bodahn not to expect him back for a while. The Dwarf for once had been quiet and somber, only nodding his head as Hawke explained what he was doing. A last look at the Estate and he turned and hurried for the Marketplace.

          Which for being closed, was a hubbub of activity. Aveline was off on her own with a group of her Guards, handing out orders and organizing her troops. She noticed him first and gave him a solemn nod going back to minding the men.

          Varric had been found in the midst of a swarm of his minions, Garrett caught the tail end of him speaking. Getting them up to speed on the mission they were undertaking, Isabela was distributing maps and purses of gold. Sebastian took over once Varric was done, giving detailed descriptions of both men. Garrett watched as they finished up, the group of Rouges and Mercs disbanded, forming smaller parties and piling supplies and weaponry.

          A clatter of hooves caught his attention and from Lowtown a small herd of horses, mules, and ponies entered the square, Merrill astride a large gelding. Clicking her tongue she dismounted and began assigning people to their mounts. She placed the reigns to a black Percheron mare in his hands before turning and moving to help start loading supplies onto the mules and ponies.

          Mouth agape he turned to Varric who smirked softly at his expression.

          “We sent out a rallying call to the people, said the Champion had need of pack animals and men. The weight of your name helped a lot, and with our combined connections we were able to assemble this. Hawke, we’ll find them.”

          He’d only been able to nod slowly, too overwhelmed to speak.

          His companions had finished with their tasks and moved to an empty stall. Varric unrolling a detailed map of the Free Marches out on it. Aveline and Sebastian had begun marking possible routes, Merrill and Isabella offering insights as they were able.

         “The Guard will spread out, search the Wounded Coast and the roads to Starkhaven. Varric’s…friends…will fan out and scour every city to the edges of the Free Marches. Isabela has her Company setting sail along the coastlines, sending messengers to every person who owes a favor. Merrill has sent a message to her Keeper, they’ll keep an eye out and send word if they find anything.” Aveline said, words clipped and brooking no argument. She looked to him and he could only dip his head in acknowledgment.

         “Hawke, your party will be taking this route,” She trailed a line through the Marches and up through Tantervale and onto the border of the Imperium. “This is an old Slave Driver route, as best as we can guess it’ll be the most likely path. Maker willing you’ll be able to overtake them before they reach Tevinter.”

         Decided they went back to their respective groups and gave out orders, bodies flurrying and preparing to set out. Merrill stood with him and watched as people spread out in all directions and soon the square was left nearly empty. The few soldiers that would be traveling with his party mounting up and preparing to depart.

         “I can’t leave the city without their Guard Captain, but I will do my best to keep the peace in your absence Hawke.” Aveline had made her way back to his side.

         “I had guessed as much, but I am appreciative of your help in organizing the rescue part.” His words were mumbled, forcing the words of thanks through thin lips.

         “Bring our boys back, Hawke.” She clapped a hand to his shoulder, eyes watching him closely for a moment before she hailed her soldiers a last time and exited the square. When the rest of his companions were ready he hefted his bulk into the saddle and spurred his mount to the road leading out of Kirkwall.

         Mouth set in steely determination he led his party forth, he’d find them. And so help the bastard that took them.

 

***

 

         A fortnight from then and they were growing disenchanted of their chosen route. They pressed on regardless, but as they traveled further out from Kirkwall, doubt began to push in. Travelling in silence each lost in their own thoughts. Not even Varric with his talkative nature was able to find words to lift spirits.

         Garrett pushed them hard, feeling like the was betraying Fenris and Anders by needing to rest, to sleep and eat when he was unsure if they were allowed the same. Varric was firm with him, calling him out on it when they had exhausted the horses and men to the limit each day.

          “You’ll do them no good showing up tired, Hawke. Your people need a rest, and you do too. No, NO. Stop, just…stop. I get it, I do, but you need to go sleep, have Merrill give you an herb or something if you need it. Go on now, I’ll take first watch.”

         He had glared at his friend, mutinous and mulish as he stalked through the encampment to find Merrill. Knowing he would be unable to lay still unaided. She was waiting for him, large eyes lifting to his and offering up a small vial.

         “Just a sip Lethallin, oh! Make sure you’re laying down before you take it, otherwise you’ll just end up on the ground.” She said, a small smile playing about her lips as he left her.

         His tent was near the middle and he had to navigate the small crowd that huddled around the fire, feet moving faster as he noticed Sebastian turning to him. Ensconced in his tent he had thrown himself to his bed roll and turned the vial in his hand, mouth pursing as he glared at it. Cracking the wax seal he ripped the cork from the mouth and had sipped it, grimacing at the taste as he replaced the stopper. It worked fast and he was out before he knew it.

 

***

 

         The sun roused him, beams burning brightly through the flap of his tent and he sat quickly. Efficiently packing his belongings and strapping them to one of the pony carts. A quick breakfast as the rest of camp woke, and began deconstructing their camp. Varric found him as they were mounting, a grin cracking his face as he moved.

         “A messenger in the night, a scout reported back. We’re on the right path, Hawke. A Tevinter caravan passed through a town ahead two days ago, said they saw a white haired Elf and a tall blond Mage in a wagon. If we hurry we can catch them before they hit the Minanter River. We’ve got them Hawke.” The Dwarf was jubilantly stepping from side to side, hands waving as he spoke.

         “Any report as to how they looked?” His words were sharp, relief straining his voice. Eyes intent as he watched Varric, hands tightening as the smile fell from his face.

         “It wasn’t pretty, said Broody was laid out flat on the wagon floor. They had apparently whipped him something awful, but they also mentioned that Anders was healing him.” The dour response so contradictory to his previous statement had Garrett straightening in horror. He grabbed the reigns of his mount and flying into the saddle.

         “Then we have no time, get the men ready to go.” He rasped, fighting the slew of emotions that were fighting to come to the forefront. Hands shaking as he battled them, he caught Varric nodding out of the corner of his eye and heard him call out to the company before mounting his own horse.

         Rage welled within his breast, and he allowed it to stay. Broiling and growing as they raced to catch up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you go, how Hawke and Co. responded to the kidnapping.
> 
> ....Elfnapping...Magenapping... whatever.


	18. Alone: Part Five (Unity)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> .....I had hoped that I would be able to churn out a higher word count...but I have work tomorrow and I need to sleep.
> 
> Damn.
> 
> I won't be updating tomorrow, as I close and then work early the next day. That's the reason for two chapters tonight. But I'll resume on Saturday when I get off.
> 
> There are no...warnings for this one I guess...
> 
> Unhealthy expectations for oneself is all I can come up with...eh

          The fog lifted somewhat once he saw the state that Fenris was in. Taking in the broken, flayed flesh that was weeping blood as he stood stock still just inside the cell. His hands tightened on the pouch of herbs and potions he’d been given, voice caught in his throat as he stared. The damage was extensive, and they’d not given a thought to throwing him into the cell. Dirt and detritus intermingled with the clots and torn skin.

          He’d swallowed hard before stepping back to the cell and getting the attention of the Guard.

          “If I’m to care for him I need supplies.” He announced, flinching as the man stepped forward, hand raised as though to strike him. “Master said I was to care for him. I require hot water and clean rags.” His chin tilting up and portraying a confidence he did not feel.

          His words had stopped the man’s approach and he had looked to his fellows, barking out commands in Tevene. Anders’ knew enough to know that they were complying with his demands. He left the bars and went back to sit at Fenris’ side, pulling the ripped tunic from his shoulders gently and stroking the white hair that covered the Elf’s face. He heard the door open and a bundle of cloth was pushed into his hands, with a promise that hot water would be delivered to him soon.

          He reached out a hand and began pulling on his low mana, hissing as the blue light of healing glowed at his fingertips. He’d have to leave the wounds for the moment until he could properly clean them out, but he could begin soothing other ills until he had the hot water. Noticing the blood stains on Fenris’ lips he gently pried his mouth open and hissed as he saw the damage his tongue had borne as he tried to hold in his screams. A pulse of healing magic and it was slowly beginning to knit itself together. A steaming pot was set by his knee, and he startled as he looked up into the eyes of his Guard.

          “T-thank you,” He mumbled dropping his eyes and starting to soak a few of the rags. A grunt was all he received before the slamming of the door pronounced his departure. Letting out a shaky breath he turned back to Fenris and sighed. Another small pulse of healing magic before turning to the herbs and potions, nothing there that would make it hurt any less. What he wouldn’t give for a vial Embrium extract. Nothing he could do about it, gritting his teeth he reached for a rag and wrung it out, a last look at Fenris’ face before he pressed it to the open wound and began trying to clean it.

          A muffled wail of pain escaped bruised lips, and he put a hand on a quivering shoulder trying to keep the Elf from moving. Feet were digging into the floor, kicking up dirt and filth. Anders hiked his robes up to his hips and straddled bruised thighs, trying to keep the wound site from getting any dirtier.

          “Fenris! Stop, please! You’ll make it worse.” He dropped the rag back into the pot and laid both of his hands on the Elf’s shoulders, pulsing out healing magic and trying to draw the sting from his torn flesh. A wild green eye peered up over a shoulder and Anders’ dropped his head to press his cheek to Fenris’.

          “It’s just me, Fenris. I’m trying to help, but I need you to keep still. I know it hurts, I know, and I’m so sorry. Please, stay still and let me help you.” His eyes watered as he spoke, and he kept his hold until he felt Fenris nod. A choking laugh as the Elf responded, he sat back on his heels, careful not to press on the wounds on Fenris’ legs.

          “This is going to hurt, but let me know if you need a minute and I’ll switch to a poultice or something ok?” He said, voice garbled as he continued to cry. Another nod, and he reached for the bag pulling it towards them.

          He lifted himself off the Elf and helped pull him to kneeling. Fenris cursing and hissing as it pulled on his back and pressed on the contusions on his thighs.

          “Just drink it really fast and you can lay back down again ok?” Anders babbled, cracking open the vial of elfroot and putting it to Fenris’ lips. He drank it down thirstily, face screwing up at the taste and looked around for the flagon. The Mage scrambled to get it, helping him drink from it. He sighed as the liquid washed away the taste and cooled his parched, raw throat. When he had had his fill he let the Mage lower him back down, reaching for his hand as the cloth was soaked again and brought back to his back.

          Anders threaded their fingers together and squeezed lightly before going back to clean the wounds. The hand in his tightened, pitiful whimpers escaping as the Elf struggled to stay still. His eyes blurred as he ministered to Fenris, shoulders shaking as he gulped back sobs. The water darkening with each pass, clouding with blood and dirt until with a final swipe and thorough examination Anders’ declared his wounds clean.

          He gently dried the remaining water from the lacerations and turned back to the pouch digging through and laying out what he had. A few poultices, some spindleweed leaves and two more vials of elfroot potion and small jug of whisky. Not much, but he had sometimes had less in Darktown.

         Anders bit his lip as he uncorked the whisky, moving to stradle Fenris' hips again with concise instructions not to move. At the Elf's nod he upended the jug, wincing at the piercing screams that echoed in the cell and the dungeon beyond. The body below him shook with agony, and he grasped at a clenched hand trying to soothe even as he finished pouring the alcohol onto the shredded skin. He tossed the jug aside once it was empty and moved off Fenris again, whispering and comforting him as the Elf cried.

          Rummaging through the pouch he pulled some spindleweed leaves out and held them to Fenris’ lips. Instructing him to chew it, and to swallow the juice when it mingled with his saliva. Satisfied that he understood, Anders unwrapped one of the poultices, warning Fenris as to what he was about to do, began smearing it on the flayed skin as gently as he possibly could. He whispered soothing words when he could manage to get them out of his mouth, fingers impossibly tender as they smoothed the medicine out.

          The hand in his own went limp near the end. Looking up sharply he relaxed somewhat when hazy green eyes met his, and he reached up to run a hand through Fenris’ hair before finishing with the poultice. Satisfied that he had covered the critical bits he stood and shucked his robe and pulled his undershirt over his head, folding it as he moved back to sit next to the Elf. He laid his shirt on the wounds and pressed carefully, moving back to his robe he ripped strips from it and laid them in a pile by his feet. Satisfied he slipped the ripped and tattered garment back on, shivering as the chill nipped at his naked flesh.

          “I have to move you, but I promise it’s the last time tonight ok?” Anders said, getting to his knees and pulling Fenris to his own. The Elf was limp in his arms, keening as the movement jostled him. Reaching down he felt for the strips of his robes and lifting one slung it around the body in his arms, tying it off neatly and reaching for another. One by one until his shirt was secured and he was certain that no dirt would find its way underneath.  He scooted along the floor, lowering them both down until he was flat on his back and Fenris was nestled in his arms.

          Fenris sighed and rearranged his arms, hissing as the muscles in his shoulders protested. Anders reached for his hand and laced their fingers again, both sighing at the contact. He frowned slightly as he noticed dark smudges encircling Anders’ throat, tapping with his thumb to get the Mage’s attention.

          “What happened?” His voice was strained and raspy, mouth dry again.

          “Hmm?” Anders hummed, half asleep.

          “Your throat, what h-happened?” His cracked and he coughed trying to clear it, a deep wracking sound that burned as it jostled him.

          “Nothing Fen, it was nothing. Just sleep, we’re moving tomorrow. You’ll need your strength.” A tightening of his hand belied his words and Fenris was ready to ask again, but a hand cupped the back of his head and started to massage his scalp and he let it lie. For now.

 

***

 

          It felt like he’d only just managed to drift off to sleep before they were woken by the door. Shouts for them to stand had Anders on his feet quickly, moving to help Fenris stand. The Elf leaned heavily on him, biting his lip he bent down and levered Fenris onto his back. A sharp cry as the wounds on his back protested the movement, but they were being shoved from the cell and it was all he could do to keep his feet. Down the corridor and out into harsh sunlight. After so long in the dark it blinded him and he was pushed to and fro until his knees hit the low boards of a wagon. He managed to get them both on it, Fenris lying flat on the floor of it and Anders sat beside him, waiting for further instructions.

          Teeming waves of soldiers streamed from the Den, he caught sight of Master moving for a gilded carriage and he bit his tongue as Varania followed him into it. One of the guards came forward and looped a long chain through both Fenris and his shackles before securing it to a metal post bolted to the side of the cart. He watched grimly as the guard was called away before moving slightly to inspect the post. A hand on his shoulder startled him, shoving him back to the floor. He shook the hair out of his eyes and looked up into the unforgiving face of yet another guard. The man scowled at him for a second before a second pouch was pushed into his hands and he walked away.

          Tearing open the pouch he found more poultices, elfroot potions and spindleweed leaves. Smiling wryly he scooted forward and began to unwrap the shirt from Fenris’ back, already pulsing with healing magic.

          A call was blown on a horn and the wagon began to move, Fenris opened a bleary eye as he was bumped around. Anders slid his hand into his and watched as they were taken ever further away from Kirkwall.

 

***

          They moved endlessly, as if the horde they traveled with would never tire. Into the night and clear through to the next morning. He slept when he could, curled protectively around Fenris their hands clasped between them. The rays of the morning sun woke him and he sat slowly, blinking myopically in the brightness. A shout startled him and he turned to watch as a bag was flung to him, he caught it reflexively. Pulling open the drawstrings he found rations of hard tack, dried meats and three skins of water, grabbing one he took a deep draw of it and sighed as it moistened his mouth. He nudged the Elf’s shoulder and helped him drink, offering bits of meat and biscuit when he was done. He managed to get Fenris into a sitting position, the Elf moaning as his cracking skin pulled and split. Anders soothed the ache somewhat with a flare of magic, watching as the pained expression softened somewhat.

          Fenris ate hungrily, tearing pieces of the jerky off and chewing as quickly as he could. Anders put two of the skins of water away for later in the day, allowing Fenris to drink as much as he was able from the first. They leaned against each other as they ate, one hand always clasped between them. Anders tired of the food, only able to nibble at the corners of a biscuit and a small mouthful of jerky before he couldn’t make himself eat anymore. Fenris noticed and quickly packed away their supplies, shoving them to rest at the back of the cart.

          He turned slowly, cautious of his wounds, studying the Mage and tracing the bruises that circled just below his mouth and down to his neck. Anders stilled at the contact, head bowing slightly as Fenris pulled the collar of his robes aside finger gently brushing his bruised flesh.

          “Anders?” The name was low and guttural, as he held back a well of emotion. The Mage looked like he was ready to try and bolt. Not that he would get anywhere but still. Pale skin losing what little color it had, teeth catching his bottom lip as his hair slid forward to shield his face.

          “The choice was mine, such as it was.” A muttered response that he strained to hear. He lifted his hand and pulled back the tangled knot of hair that obstructed his view of his face. Anders looked back at him, chin quivering, tears streaming down his face. It knotted him up inside to see such abject misery on his face, and he let go of the Mage’s hand to pull him into his embrace, stifling a hiss as Anders unconsciously wrapped his hands around his middle.

          “Anders, we never have a choice.” He sighed, cheek coming to rest on top of his head, “Shhh, Mage. I have you now, shhh.” He couldn’t promise that it would never happen again, that Master wouldn’t hurt them. They were utterly powerless, chained as they were. At his mercy, at his whim. But they wouldn’t be forever, and he ached for the moment that he would be able to pay forward the pain that Anders and he had endured and would continue to endure till that moment came.

          As his mind wandered with his thoughts, he continued to soothe the Mage in his arms, pressing light kisses to the crown of his head and murmuring soothingly to him.

          He’d never rest until they were free, and they were able to repay Danarius’ actions back in kind. He owed Anders no less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am considering editing all the Alone chapter names....seeing as this is going to be a very long process...which I had not intended on. Whoops.
> 
> Maybe...maybe not and I'll just end up with ten chapters that all start with Alone.... >_>;;;;;;;;; 
> 
>  
> 
> Big breath guys, we can see this through. Promise. :)


	19. Alone: Part Six (Devastation)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Look at that...I managed to put one up before I thought I would.
> 
>  
> 
> But it's not good news guys. Dark af, check the warnings at the bottom first before delving into this one.  
> Seriously.

          The caravan had stopped for the night, they were unceremoniously unloaded and led to the ominous mouth of yet another Slaver Den. Anders helped Fenris walk, the man’s injuries were worrisome still but better than they had been. Surrounded on all sides they were led through the tunnels and down to the slave pens, pushed inside one and locked in. There was a bench this time and he guided Fenris to sit on it, unwrapping the tattered ribbons of his robe and peeling his shirt from his back. The grievous wounds were slowly managing to knit themselves back together, pink around the edges and scaly where the more minor gouges had been.

          Anders’ lay his hands on the very edges and pushed as much healing bliss into the area as his low mana would allow. Grimacing as the pull became too much, razor sharp and painful. Wearily he allowed his healing light to dim, pulling the pouch of herbs to his lap and digging through it. More spindleweed was pushed into Fenris’ mouth, the Elf pulling a face as he chewed. When Anders’ was satisfied that he’d gotten all the use from them as he’d be able he was allowed to spit the ground leaves and gargle from a water skin the Mage had saved.

          Fenris leant heavily against Anders’ side, reaching for his hand and clasping it tightly. The Mage dug through the bag again and pulled some of the biscuits from it, laying them on his knee before reaching for some of the jerky. He proffered it to the Elf who took a portion of it and bit into the meat hungrily. Settling back against the wall Anders watched him eat, ignoring the pains in his own stomach and closed his eyes. A tightening of the hand in his had his eyes opening again lazily, he quirked an eyebrow at Fenris in question and watched as he raised a biscuit to Anders’ mouth.

          “No, you eat it. I’m not hungry.” He mumbled, turning his head aside. The hand followed pressing the hard tack to his mouth again, he firmed his lips and shook his head.

          “Anders, please. You need to eat something, you haven’t eaten more than a mouthful today.” Fenris pressed, holding up the wafer still. A frisson of emotion crossed the man’s face before he let out a sigh and allowed Fenris to press the morsel into his mouth. Grunting with satisfaction the Elf selected a hunk of the meat and raised it to his lips again. “Again.”

          He continued to feed Anders, occasionally taking a bite for himself, until he was sure that the Mage had eaten a goodly amount. He took a swallow of water before turning back to Anders and watching closely as the man took a few cautious sips. Murmuring in approval he took the skin back and capped it, placing it back into the pouch and pulling Anders under his arm, ignoring the lance of pain that shot through his muscles. Eyes slipping closed as he dozed off, feeling the warm puffs of breath that warmed the front of his shirt as the Mage slipped into sleep as well.

 

***

 

          A clanging along the bars of their cage woke them, both standing quickly and looking for danger. The door was opened with a bang, the keeper of the keys moving aside to allow a small unit of soldiers to enter. Fenris shifted slightly, pushing Anders’ behind him. Hands clasping at his elbows, he could feel the tremors shaking the Mage. He kept watchful eyes on them as they spread about the small expanse, his knees bending in preparation of a fight.

          One of the men pulled his sword from its scabbard, pointing it at chest level, “The Master wants the Mage, stand aside slave.” He was disinclined to agree to the order but Anders’ hands clenched once before he was moving to step around Fenris. He watched as the man allowed them to shackle his feet and thread a chain through the manacles on his wrists. He bit his lip hard as the Mage bowed his head, the soft fall of his dirty hair shielding his face from view.

          He was corralled into a corner as they moved to exit, he barely noticed the Guards. Eyes seeing only Anders, the Mage held himself stiffly, pale and trembling in the flickering torch light. A soldier quickly closed the door behind them and replaced the chain and lock before pushing Anders’ forward roughly, a tremulous look was thrown at him before they moved down the corridor and out of sight. Alone and terrified, Fenris began to pace, snarling lowly as the pain in his back and the worry in his heart grew.

 

***

 

          Anders walked quickly, steps clicking on the stones as he kept pace with his jailors. Six guards surrounded him, armor clanking loudly in the cavernous hallway. He hunched his shoulders, head bowed and fidgeted with his chains. His heart was palpitating, cold sweat blossoming despite the chill. Whatever lay at the end of this journey, he was worried he wouldn’t make it out in one piece.

          All too soon they arrived at a heavy stone door and he was shoved to the forefront. Large hands clasping his shoulders, fingers just a touch too rough and digging into his skin. His breath quickened, gasping breaths that were too loud to his own ears, heart pounding in his chest. The door was opened and a woman clad in simple robes beckoned him in, he moved in shuffling steps and was led into antechamber, the door slamming shut behind him. She led him to a small alcove that was shielded by a silken bathing screen. He was prodded round it and positioned next to a stone tub that was filled near to the brim with steaming water.

          He looked at it in confusion, only catching the glint of a knife out of the corner of his eye. Anders started as the woman came to him wielding a small blade, a choking cry as she raised it, eyes fluttering closed. Only to open them a moment later as the sound of tearing fabric reached his ears. She was meticulously cutting his tattered robes from his shoulders, the weak fabric no match for the sharp blade. Soon he was standing naked before her, knees knocking as he waited for her to instruct him further. The woman gestured him forward, towards the tub and he cocked his head.

          “Master wishes for you to bathe before you are brought before him. Get in.” Her words were curt and harshly accented, brooking no argument.

          He did as commanded and stepped quickly into the water, sinking to his knees and hissing as the water lapped at scratches and cuts. Vials were upended on his head and hands reached out to scrub at his hair. The smell was curious, scented heavily and enveloping him in their heady aroma.

          She was methodical in her task, every inch of his skin was scrubbed clean. He twitched in embarrassment when she reached to clean his nethers, shame burning bright in his cheeks and trailing up his neck and ears. A second woman came bearing a large bucket and it was poured over him as he stood, soap and grime washing away in rivulets as he was taken from the tub to sit upon a bench. Again she approached, this time with a pair of shears and attacked his hair, leaving the sides shorn, the top of his head was trimmed neatly but left enough length that it tickled the back of his neck. Another bucket was used to rise the hair she had cut, before arming herself with more bottles and a small cloth. Scented oils were rubbed into his skin from shoulders to toes, traces brushed through his hair.

          Loose robes were brought out, long flowing fabrics that were artfully placed without needing to unchain him. Soft silken fabrics were draped across his body. A flowing sarong was knotted across his hips, the fabric fluttering as he swayed where he stood. He watched as they dressed him, confusion filling him as they decorated him.

          A small wand was dabbed into a small pot of khol and she applied it neatly and quickly to his eyes, a smear of rouge to his lips and cheeks. Standing back she eyed her handiwork, circling him as he was bade to stand again. A harsh burst of Tevene that he could not understand and he was being led through a short hallway into a large living space.

          A sumptuous bed dominated much of the space and he quailed before it. His hands wringing as the pieces began to click into place, they hadn’t been washing him because he needed a bath. But because Master required use of him. A low chuckle from the corner and his eyes fell to the ground, slowly sinking to his knees and prostrating himself as Master stood and swept toward him.

          “Ah, good. They’ve done a fine job, stand Slave. I would admire the view.”

          Anders shivered as he stood, shoulders hunching as the Magister took him in. The fabrics doing little to keep the chill of the room from biting at his flesh, shame and fear warring inside him as he waited for Master to finish examining him. With his eyes averted he strained to hear the swishing of robes along the stones, hands tangling in the chains that bound him. He flinched as long, spidery fingers danced along a shoulders. The cruel laughter echoed in his ears, moving along his collar bone and sliding up his throat. They tightened for a scant moment before moving on and coming to rest under his chin, lifting it. He contemplated closing his eyes for only a second before he raised them to look Master in the face.

          A taunting smile played about thin lips, echoing hollowly in steel grey eyes. Fingers curled tighter about his chin and Anders did his best not to so much as twitch under the scrutiny.

          “Cato!” A sharp command that was answered quickly, a door that Anders’ had not seen opening to allow a thin weasely man to enter. Anders’ chin was released and he dropped it to rest against his chest, curling protectively in on himself. Master swept off to converse with the man, Cato. His ears were buzzing, hands smoothing along the rich texture of the fabrics he was swaddled with. He barely heard the exchange between the new addition to the room and Master.

          A hand on his arm startled him and he looked up without thought, Master looked amused and he proffered Anders’ a vial that he took with little prompting. He eyed the viscous liquid with trepidation, rolling the dainty container between his fingers gently.

          “Drink it. Now.”

          Not like he had much choice, unstoppering it he resisted the Healer’s urge in himself to sniff it. He coughed as it burned down his throat, eyes watering as the taste lingered on his tongue. Whatever it was absorbed quickly and he panted as his insides twisted. A hunger gnawing at his belly, the fabrics draping him were like leaden weights. Scratchy and irritating against his sensitive skin, he tore at the robes. Giggling madly as the cloth strained taut and then ripped, leaving him bare, tatters of silks fluttering around him as he moved.

          Master watched him, seemingly pleased with the reaction. His fingers trailed along the skin of his arm and he gripped his bicep and led him to the bed. Anders went along willingly, fully in the hold of whatever it was he had drank. Laughter shaking his body as he clambered on the bed and waited for Master to follow. Moaning as hands gripped his thighs and pried them open, settling between them and tracing patterns along skin.

          Heady and flying on the drug that was slowly coursing through him he pulled the Magister in for a kiss. Teeth dragging over his lips and consuming him in a flare of heat. His body wakening and flushed as he writhed under the body over him. The fog he’d been holding at bay enveloped his mind and he lost himself to the false instinct, moaning at the feel of bruising fingers and sharp bites along his clavicle.  

          Keening as fingers brushed against his hole, exclaiming as they entered him, slick and teasing. He whined as they were removed, gasping in the next moment as he was entered. Pleasure all-encompassing, time fracturing as he tumbled headfirst into the hold of Cato’s concoction.

          Hours or minutes passing in a blink, he couldn’t rightly tell. Allowing Master to slake his lusts upon him, uninhibited and without care. Until the Magister was spent, and calling for his Guards.

          Confusion welling up in Anders as he was pulled from the bed and forced back down the hall. Fingers grasping just shy of too tight on his wrists, the touch rekindling the desire. Rubbing up against the men who held him in turn, receiving a hard slap to his cheek when he continued. Laughing raucously as they marched him down to the pens. Discussing ways in which, if they were permitted, to use him. Taunting him with caresses and riling him up again before shoving him into a cage and locking the door. He writhed against the bars, calling out to them, begging for them to come back. To fuck him, use him.

          A sharp intake of breath from behind had him whirling, Oh!

          “Fenris!” He exclaimed, dashing for the Elf and wrapping himself around him, he nuzzled at his neck. Licking at the lines of Lyrium that called to him, moaning as the zing of Fade laced with musk flooded his senses. Hands pushed at him, and he tangled their legs together, sending them sprawling to the floor. He climbed astride Fenris’ hips and rocked his hips, moaning at the contact.

          Their positions were flipped quickly and he panted as he was pinned, green eyes going wide with shock and…worry? Why was he worried, he felt wonderful. More alive than he’d ever recalled being, he arched up and caught the Elf’s lips. Licking and biting gently before he was pushed back down and Fenris was backing off of him.

          “Fenris?”

          And just like that, a wave of blessed cool swept through him. The fog retreating, his mind screaming. Time seemed to slow back into it’s correct increments and he shook his head. He felt like he was drunk, head swimming as he tried to focus. Eyelids heavy as he swayed, the fire inside him guttering out and with it all his strength. He looked back to Fenris who was eyeing him warily, still pressed against the corner as if he was afraid Anders would attack him again.

          The man looked down at himself, his nakedness condemning. Skin littered with bruises, vicious bite marks that throbbed with his heart beat and scratches that oozed blood in time. Horror choking him as he wiped at a hand print, as if it were dirt he could swipe off. Hysteria filling the void the fog had left. Trembling as he perused the marks of his abuse, littered and filthy with the leavings of his rape. Though his mind taunted him, was it really rape if he had willingly gone with the Magister, if he had guzzled down the potion? Or was he to be held accountable for his own actions.

          Two warring sides in him that allowed the panic and humiliation to take hold. He grasped at his shorn hair, pulling on it as he fought himself, shoulders heaving as he fought for breath. Great gulping sobs wracking him as he squeezed his eyes shut and clawed at his scalp. His fingers trailed down his face, brutal and dragging in his skin. Hands grasped at his shoulders and he fought, screaming as he tried to gouge the bruises littering his arms out from his skin. Scanning the empty cell he threw himself toward the pouch that had dropped by the bench, pulling a vial out and breaking it. Lightning fast he brought a shard down aiming for a bruise in the shape of fingers wrapping around his wrist. His hand was stopped mere inches from his flesh by another hand around his and he struggled trying to wrestle his hand free.

          Arms and legs wrapped around him, hugging him and pinning his arm to the floor. An anguished face swam before his tear filled eyes, the mouth was moving, shouting at him. Anders gasped for breath, still struggling until with a gentle twist the shard was pried from his fingers and tossed aside. He found himself bundled up in tight, strong arms and he wailed into the Elf’s chest.

          He was rocked softly, a hand petting at what was left of his hair, garbled words murmured into his ear. He struggled for breath, dark spots staining his eyes as he fought for breath before finally succumbing and passing out from lack of oxygen.

 

***

          Fenris continued to rock long after Anders had lost himself. Gentle fingers combing out the soft hair that was left atop his shorn head, eyes tracing the littering of bruises that marred the soft white skin, mottled blues, purples and greens. He snarled at the clear imprint of fingers and palms, a violent desecration. As Anders slept in his arms, kept protective watch.

          The pain lancing through his back, seemed dull in comparison to the one that throbbing in his heart. Watching as Anders had gone for the shard had sent him into a terrified struggle to wrench the glass piece from his fingers. He hadn’t seemed to hear him as he’d shouted in his face, shaking his shoulders and trying to get through to him.

          He had no doubts that the struggle would continue once the Mage regained consciousness. Fenris shuddered at the thought of losing Anders by his own hand, he’d have to remain vigilant. As he rocked the man in the cradle of his body, Fenris steeled himself for what the morning would bring, but he’d fight the man and see him through this terrible nightmare that they had found themselves in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings:
> 
> Rape
> 
> Drugged Rape
> 
> Rape Aftermath
> 
> Attempted Suicide/Self Harm
> 
> After Care
> 
> Drugged Mental State
> 
>  
> 
> Like I said...dark...as fuck.
> 
> I can't believe the terrible things I've written and I feel awful. So...yeah...good night.
> 
> Don't hurt me, please...
> 
> Again not able to update until Sunday night/Monday morning..this is one hell of a schedule they have me on this week...


	20. Alone: Part Seven (Respite)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not too happy with this...but it's something at least...
> 
>  
> 
> Happy Thanksgiving to my American readers. To everyone not participating in this holiday, have a wonderful day~!

          He crooned softly, a half remembered melody he’d heard somewhere escaping his lips as he rocked the limp body in his arms. One hand encircling too thin wrists, his tanned fingers able to envelope the bird like limbs with ease. The other was buried in filthy locks of hair, caressing the scalp below in a soothing gesture in time with his swaying. Curled in a corner, hunched protectively over the prone form nestled in the cradle of his body.

          Five times they had taken Anders from the cell, naked as the day he was born. Dragged screaming from Fenris’ hold, voice cracking as he was taken. Brutal grips bruising at already contused arms, voice rough and sharp as they escorted him from the dungeons. He was left alone in the darkness, pacing and snarling as he fretted and worried. Anxiety conjuring images of Anders dead at Master’s hand, of injuries that not even the Healer’s aptitudes could heal.

          Each time they brought him back, his eyes were clouded with whatever concoctions that had been forced into him. New injuries and marks littering the pale, drawn skin. Face flushed with arousal and need as he rubbed himself against the Elf. Fenris restrained him until the effect subsided, hands just shy of too tight as Anders regained himself. Comforting and consoling the Mage as the implication and memory of his violations bombarded him.

          When rations were distributed he fed the man, coercing him into taking mouthfuls of bread and meat. Cajoling him into drinking the water, face pressed close to Anders as he cared for him. Beyond the withdrawal of the potion, the Mage was silent except for his wracking sobs and keening moans that echoed to Fenris’ core.

          Anders’ muteness frightened the Elf. The Mage had always been loquacious, verbose to the point of aggravation. What he wouldn’t give to hear him blather about something, even Maker take him, Mage Rights. The light that had always seemed so determinedly bright in Anders’ eye, had dimmed in the darkness of their incarceration. Arms tightening fractionally on the man in his arms, Fenris nuzzled into his throat. Seeking the warmth there, the steady thud of his pulse, the scent of him.

          Another pass of his hand through the Mage’s tangled hair, shifting minutely as his leg gave protest of sitting in one position for so long. Teeth baring as it pulled on the healing gashes still prevalent upon his back. He hummed as a pulse of healing blue light from his lap, green eyes seeking honey brown. No discernable reaction was evident other than the glow that radiated from Anders’ hands. Face impassive, eyes unseeing.

          “Thank you,” He murmured against the softness of Anders’ cheek. Reveling in the rough scratch of the beginnings of a beard against his smooth skin. There was no response, not that he’d held out any hope for one.

          In the distance he could hear the audible clank of armor, and his heart sank. The stiffness that pervaded Anders informed him that, he too, had heard the sound. A muffled wail escaped his mouth as he pushed further into Fenris’ chest, hands clawing at his arms as Anders’ sought to hide himself away. As it drew nearer, he pressed kisses to the Mage’s cheeks. Fighting the dread and fear that filled him, Anders’ needed him to be strong; he would be that for him, at the very least.

          His head rose as the Guards arrived outside the cell, fingers clenching spasmodically as the door was opened. The tumble of the locks sent his heart skittering, a lone Guardsman entered the cell and barked at them gruffly.

          “Come, the Master has demanded your presence, Slaves.”

          Confusion warring with a new spike of anxiety, Fenris dragged them to their feet. The Mage hanging onto him, face buried still in the hollow of his throat. Fenris gently pried him off, taking his hand and stepping after the Guard, leading Anders from the cell.

          The hand in his was shaking, the low whimpers of the Mage as he tried to stifle them. His heart was pulsating, the heavy thump echoing in his ears as they were escorted down the corridor. Mouth dry as he tried to regulate his breathing, fingers locking tightly on Anders’ hand. Whatever lay at the end of this hallway, they would find some way to survive it together.

 

***

 

          Irritation and rage tempered with fear flared through him, muttering to himself as he paced. His heavy arms crossed over his burly chest, kicking up dust as he stomped. Watchful eyes catalogued his movements and he grimaced in the beholder’s direction.

          It had been a week since they’d first gotten news of Fenris and Anders, a week since they’d been seen and then promptly disappeared once more into the Wildervale. The snows had made it difficult to travel, and even more so to track the Caravan. Maps had been pulled out and scanned over, every outcropping of mountains had been detailed, every slaver den marked. Scouts were reporting to team leaders, and sections of a map grid were filled in as they scoured.

          Their camps had nearly doubled in size, messengers being sent out to outlying scouting parties and redirecting them towards Tantervale. Varric, Isabela and Sebastian were commanding a force that baffled Garrett.

          “Ho there, Hawke!” He half-turned on his next pass, face stony and imposing.

          Varric shrugged off the look and beckoned him forward, fingers jabbing at the map that was draped over a flat stone in front of him. Garrett sighed and strode forward, hands falling to his sides in clenching fists as he moved to the Dwarf’s side.

          “Have we heard anything?” He growled, arms coming up to once again cross over his chest, head cocked slightly as he glared down at the grid map.

          “Nothing so far, but Isabela’s team just swapped out again, they’re combing this area,” He gestured to a sparse thatch of white grids, heavily x’ed with red ink. “Sebastian’s has spread along the Nevarran border and I’ve set mine to link along the Imperium and The Weyrs, they’re not going to get past us. We’re slowly blocking them in, Hawke. It might take a little time but we’re going to get them back. I promise you.” Varric’s voice was tinged with exhaustion and tension, the normally expressive face pulled tight with anxiety.

          “Every moment they are with that bastard we run the risk of losing them. Healer and Warrior or not, that Magister is a different breed and I will not abide by leaving them in his care for a moment longer than necessary.” His voice was a rumbling thunder of anger, a pang of regret quickly quelled as he saw the flash of pity and fear intermingle with exhaustion on Varric’s face. Hawke’s large hands reached to scrub across his face, and he sighed deeply.

          “My apologies, Varric. I know you’re doing all you can. I’m just…” He cast about for a suitable explanation, the rest of his sentence dying as when he couldn’t find the words. A hand clapped to his shoulder and he peered down into the Dwarf’s visage, body uncoiling as his emotions roiled in him.

          “Don’t apologise, I get it, Hawke. You haven’t slept in a while, perhaps you should rest. I’ll come get you when I have more news.”

          He jerkily nodded, shoulders slumping as he moved from the area and headed for his tent. Merrill found him on his way to his bed roll, her normally bright smile twisted into a grimace of worry, she offered him a plate of food. His stomach grumbled at the scent, but he shook his head.

          “I can’t eat, not right now.” He said quietly, as he pushed it back to her.

          “Lethallin,” she began but he shook his head ever more violently, cutting her off.

          “I can’t. I’ll eat later, perhaps.” He said, eyes glued firmly to the frost encrusted ground. He could feel the weight of her gaze on him and he hunched his shoulders in agitation, shuffling his feet as she remained silent. He chanced a glance up and nearly recoiled by the look of pity that was adorning her features. His hackles rose, a snarling retort seconds from escaping, clamping down he gave her a short nod before once again making his way to his tent and dropping to his bed roll.

          The glint off the vial of sleep potion caught his eye and he glared at it, plucking the vial up and rolling it between his large fingers. The glass tinkled as the liquid sloshed around inside and he glared at it.

          Slumping backwards he looked up at the canvas ceiling and tried to relax. Breathing deeply and focusing on the play of shadows from the trees outside. Every muscle was tense, belly tight with emotions too numerous to sort. Closing his eyes he could only see the last conversation he’d had with Fenris.

          Angry, harsh words spoken out of exhaustion and frustration. The way the Elf had looked at him when he’d snapped at him, eyes wide and fearful. How he’d run from him when he’d tried to apologize. He cursed himself for walking away and leaving it like that. For forcing Fenris to meet with his sister alone, unaided.

          Well…

          His thoughts shifted to Anders, and his fingers tightened on the sheets he was laying on.

          The guilt was biting, the rage and terror a double edged blade that cut deeply. This was his fault. Anders and Fenris were suffering, enslaved to a madman, and it was his fault that it had come to pass. His eyes squeezed shut as his body trembled, the raw emotion wracking him and he wept quietly. Hot tears staining the pillows as he screamed silently into his fist.

          He allowed himself the feeling for a few moments, acknowledging the pain and heartache he carried before the steel walls he had erected that first day came slamming down again. He wrenched the stopper from the vial and downed the rest of the potion, and sank into the welcome embrace of sleep.

 

***

 

          It felt like the walk they were being escorted on took hours. The clanking of armor and booted feet sounded like a dirge to Fenris, a lament that would only end with their death. Terror stuttering his breath as they marched along the stone tunnel, as phantasmagorias fluttered through his mind. Images of the horrors that awaited them at the hands of Master. Anders was little more than a shadow at his side, head bowed, naked flesh shivering in the biting cold. As they neared the end of the corridor, a door ahead of them opened and they were pushed forward through it.

          The Mage had gone stark white with panic, a high whimpering keen escaping through thin lips. Eyes rolling madly as he shuffled from foot to foot, hands scrabbling at Fenris’. He shushed him soothingly, trying to placate Anders, even as his own pulse skyrocketed. The room was well lit, a bathing screen off to the side shielding half the room and he smelt…

          Ah…

          He could smell the same oils and scents that marred Anders’ flesh when he was returned to the cell. Sweat slicking his palms as he ran his hand along bitingly tight fingers in his tunic. He pressed his cheek to Anders’, murmuring into his ear. A door clicked open and he swung around to watch as a matronly woman entered the room and gestured for them to follow her.

          Fenris was cut out of the remnants of his clothing, shivering too as he waited for the woman to allow them into the tub. Anders was at his elbow, forehead pressed to his shoulder, fingertips dragging along his hip and side. Seeking comfort alone from closeness, he pressed back into it briefly before allowing himself to step into the pool. Beckoning to Anders to join him, he hissed as the hot water lapped at the still ragged wounds on his back.

          A pulse of relief washed over him and he bowed his head slightly to Anders in thanks as the Mage lit up with healing magic. He endured being scrubbed by the woman and her assistant. Fuming under his breath as he was washed efficiently, water dousing him as they scrubbed.

          He kept contact with Anders as he was bathed, keeping a tight hold on his hand as they were told to exit. He was sat on a stool and gritted his teeth as they sheared his head, an almost exact replica of the hair style Anders was sporting. Shorn sides with a bit of length left on the top to drape neatly on the side of his head.

          They were rubbed down with oils, the stench of them niggling at his nose as it enveloped him. Swathed in bolts fabric were artfully arranged and then all too soon they were being pushed into a room beyond. Anders nearly vibrating in terror as they entered an expansive living space. His eyes were drawn to the bed that dominated the room, and he grimaced at the implication.

          Truly he had expected this from the start and was wary as to why it had taken the Master so long to exact this form of punishment from him. He glanced at Anders, hands trailing along his arm as they waited with bated breath for the arrival of the Magister.

          They hadn’t long to wait, a far door swinging open to allow Master to sweep into the room. Fenris sank to his knees, prostrating himself before Master, aware of Anders doing the same beside him. An imperious gesture from Master had the Mage standing, body bowed as he stumbled forward.

          “Something a little different tonight I think pet, stand here.”

          Anders was positioned just beyond where Fenris was still kneeling, A chain had been bolted to the ceiling, a jeweled collar dangling from the links. It was snapped round his neck, a whine escaping him as it threatened to choke him. Tight and uncomfortable, he looked to Fenris, body trembling as Master moved from him and towards the Elf.

          “As for you, little wolf. An explanation perhaps, so you fully understand the weight of my dalliances with your Mage.” The words were spoken softly, ambiguous in their tone and he tensed in trepidation.

          “I altered my decree for your outbursts during your punishment. Two nights for every cry, for every time you contravened. Your mage was quite vocal himself as he endured the recompense for your defiance of my wishes.” A hand gripped his newly shorn hair and raised him to look upon Anders, heart heavy as the words flooded guilt and anger through him.

          “Tonight is the final extraction of payment. After which, I do believe the Abomination has outlived his purpose. I grow bored of his whining, such a weak pathetic thing. As such, you will be a participant this time.” A smarmy smile that chilled him to the bone, eyes flicking over to Anders, who stood chained, helpless. Face ashen as he was discussed, as if his death was only a trifling detail.

          His eyes met Fenris, and a stiff dip of his head was all he could manage. Master clicked his fingers and the door opened up to allow a scrawny little man to enter, he scrambled to Anders and proffered a vial. Desperation overcame the Mage’s expression but he dutifully drank the contents, shuddering as he swallowed. Bowing lowly the man scurried from the room, the door closing behind him with a loud click.

          Glee was writ across Master’s face as he watched, gripping hand gentling somewhat to smooth through the white hair it had held. Fenris trembled in the caress, mind whirring furiously as he watched Anders struggle in his chain.

          A flush was steadily rising along his flesh, eyes bright with the effects of the potion worked through him. A gasping moan echoing in the otherwise silent room. The hand on his head brought him to standing and he stood on shaky legs, bent at the waist subservient still. He was ushered forward and the Mage pulled forward to the extent of the chains reach, choking as the collar dug into his throat.

          Fenris was guided to the bed and he swallowed hard. The hand was dancing along his skin, pushing him to the soft mattress and his stomach rebelled as he was unrobed. Naked and vulnerable he allowed himself to be pushed back, hands petting at his skin, shame burning hot in his belly as he was touched. The Master slapped at his flank and he snapped to attention, focusing somewhat when the a body hovered over his own.

          Anders was keening just beyond the bed, hands outstretched, panting and sweating as he was consumed by the thrall the potion ensnared him in. Gagging as he asphyxiated himself with the collar. Fenris watched him over Master’s shoulder, eyes fixating on the Mage. Terror and humiliation welling up in him as he felt himself being violated.

          His ears twitched as he realized the Magister was talking as he thrust, foul words dripping from his lips as he forced himself upon his slave.

          “ – a treat perhaps for my loyal officers. He could be used for some time before the effects wear off. A final punishment for you, my little wolf? To watch as your Mage is raped and violated by my men, before I mercifully surrender him to the void. He’ll be begging for it before long, he’d such a needy little slut. He moans so beautifully as he’s fucked, he loves it.”

          It caught his attention, rage swelling and encompassing him. Burning out every other feeling as he listened to the Magister malign Anders. Gentle Anders who soothed the hurts and ills of the needy. Anders who had given all that he had to the wretches he tended. Anders who was a Champion, in his own right, for the poor and downtrodden. Fenris hissed, anger flaring brightly at the thought that this man, this disgusting, foul, monster of a man. Who took without thought, who had distorted him beyond measure, who tortured for the sick pleasure of it.

          Fenris growled under his breath, glaring up at Danarius. The Magister seemed to have recognized that he had perhaps pushed too far at long last and his eyes widened. Baring his teeth Fenris bucked the body off of himself, managing to bring to bear the full strength of his fist that caught the man in the chin. Sending him reeling back and off the bed.

          Fenris scrambled from the mattress, prowling around the corner of the bed. Only to see the Magister straighten from where he had fallen and duck behind Anders. The Mage keened as he was jostled, pushing into the form of Danarius and rubbing against him.

          A flick of a hand had him flying backwards, crashing into a wall with a pained gasp as he felt his wounds jar open. When he had regained his feet he watched in horror as Danarius wrenched Anders by his collar. Dragging him along the stones before placing a foot on his throat. The Mage’s face was reddening as he fought to breathe, gasping pants as his eyes bulged.

          Fenris stopped, body sinking into a ready stance. The cuffs on his ankles rendered his Lyrium useless, inaccessible both to him and Danarius. The Magister had Blood Magic at his disposal, Fenris was unarmed. But as he watched Anders fight to breath, his conviction grew. The Mage would not last the night, that much was inevitable, but he’d be damned if he let Anders die alone. He’d much rather try one last time to fight than to allow Danarius to enact his final abuses.

          Growling he hurtled forward, hissing as he was clipped in the shoulder by yet another spell. A spray of blood from a shallow cut, bellowing in anger as it dripped down his arm. Danarius had pushed himself against a wall, the chain wrapped tightly in his hand as he continued to choke-drag Anders. He cast a quickly as he could, drawing upon the blood that was seeping from Fenris’ shoulder. The Elf was hit again, the pain driving him to his knees. He panted as he watched the Magister, and Anders laying at his feet.

          Anders was struggling against the collar, lips tinged blue as he gagged for air. Another rough tug of the chain and he was seizing in pain. Limbs falling to the floor like a marionette that’s stings had been cut, eyes falling closed as he wheezed. Fenris exploded, the agony of his wounds and the terror of losing Anders bolstered him. He slammed into the Magister mid-spell and clawed at him. Using his fading strength to force Danarius to his knees, he fell upon him, body weight sending them sprawling. A flare of heat ripped up the side of his face and he cried out in agony blindly reaching for the Magister’s throat. Strong fingers wrapped around it tightly, closing off his larynx and lifting his head some distance from the stones below. Howling he pushed back down with all he had, listening to the sickening crack of a skull meeting rock.

          Over and over he bludgeoned the Magister’s head against the floor, until his hands were warm with blood and the body under his still. Shaking he fell off of the corpse and crawled the distance to Anders, hands trembling as he searched for a pulse. He nearly cried with relief as he felt the gentle fluttering against his fingers.  Fenris tore at the collar, sobbing as the accursed metal fell from round Anders’ throat.

          Leaning down he listened for the whistling sound of harsh breaths, fingers resting on the slowly rising chest. Pulling the Mage’s limp form into his arms, wracking sobs shaking his body as he curled against Anders. He allowed himself only a moment of rest before he was up again, gently laying Anders on the floor.

          Sight hazy he ransacked Danarius’ room, nearly screaming with relief as a small ring of keys were found in the pockets of the Magister’s robes. Hands trembling as he fit key after key into his anklet cuffs, until they released and he felt his Lyrium flare. He hurried to Anders’ side, slotting more keys into the lock until he managed to find the right one to release the shackles and collar from the Mage’s body.

          He sank to the floor, body exhausted from his fight for their lives. Taking Anders’ hand in his sat on the floor and wailed with desperate force, the fear and anger consuming him as he cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cathartic in a way, I used Danarius as a way to vent. I wanted to do so much more to him.  
> Make him suffer, but time is limited.  
> And as panicked as Fenris was, I don't think he would have been able to come up with anything more elaborate.
> 
> Anders will have an opinion on this later, I think.
> 
>  
> 
> As for Hawke, for Paulah:
> 
> Garrett loves all his companions, especially in this story. (Wary though he might be of Merrill and her Blood Magic...)  
> Fenris is his main romantic love interest as of now. He's still happily splashing in the River De Nile about his feelings for Anders.
> 
> The guilt he feels for their capture is for both, equally. How sick he must be to realize that they are suffering, and it's on his head. 
> 
>  
> 
> .....
> 
>  
> 
> I wanted to thank everyone who left me messages, comments and emails while I was going through my crisis.  
> It's an uphill battle to get back to being myself, but I find that writing my anger, pain, and frustrations helps. So I'm hopeful that as I write this, I'll be able to regain what was taken from me.
> 
> Your support is a shining beacon in my darkness, and I love you all.
> 
> Thank you.


	21. Alone: Part Eight (Freedom's Heart)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...this took forever... sorry...
> 
> There should be another one up tonight.
> 
> The last of the Alone Chapters, loathe though I am to end it on an odd number...

          Fenris lay on the floor for some time, keeping contact with Anders as he tried to control himself. A ragged sound was what alerted him to the Mage wakening. Bringing himself to his knees he hovered over the man’s prone form, fingers fluttering about his face. Eyes scanning Anders’ features, breath caught in desperate hope.

          Honey brown eyes slid open lethargically, fogged by pain and confusion. Fenris braced himself to hold the man down, should he still be plagued by the potion he had ingested. When all the man did was blink myopically and struggle to intake breath, Fenris relaxed minutely.

          “Anders, can you sit up?” The Elf’s hands reaching to help should the Mage require it. Anders’ mouth opened, and a short burst of air was expelled with a whimpering keen trailing it. Hands flew upwards to his neck, and he barely had the time to grasp them gently before they touched the marred skin.

          “Don’t touch, you’re injured. Can you heal it?” Pulling the hands towards him, Fenris stroked the trembling fingers waiting for a reply.

          A shake of Anders’ head, his hand pulling from Fenris’ to ruck up the sleeves of his decorative robes to reveal fetters that the Elf had not noticed in his hurry to unleash them. He scrambled for the dropped ring of keys, the tremors in his hands causing them to jingle loudly as he flicked through them. He jabbed key after key into the lock, cursing ever louder when none of them turned in the tumbler. With one left, he looked to Anders, eyes pleading and hopeful as he slotted it in and turned it with fear numb fingers.

          Nothing.

          He growled lowly in his throat, grasping at the cuff with desperate strength as if he could pry the metal from Anders’ body with his strength alone. A soft sound near his ear had him stilling and looking up into the Mage’s.

          “I’m…sorry. I-I can l-look again for keys – ,” He stammered, voice morose and eyes turning to look furtively round the room. A hand on his cheek drew him back, and he pressed into the palm. A shaky breath escaping him as Anders looked at him, fingers stroking along his skin, eyes fixed on his as he tried to tamp down his feelings.

          “We’ll get them off, Anders, I promise.” A solemn vow that he whispered as he pressed their foreheads together, breath mingling as he moved his arms to press the man tightly to him. A tight squeeze of his arms before he was dragging himself to his feet, helping Anders to stand beside him.

          Anders cast about the room in alarm for a second, swaying on his feet and moving to the foot of the bed. Fenris followed, arms outstretched should the Mage stumble. He did no such thing, moving the sheets and folds of fabric until he found what he was looking for, turning around with a glass vial clutched in his hands. Anders waved it at Fenris, face pulling in an odd expression, fingers pointing at it wildly.

                Fenris studied the man, trying to discern what it was he was trying to convey to him. A sigh of exasperation and Anders’ opened his mouth seemingly to try and speak, only to gag painfully when the words would not come. Tears glistening in his eyes as he reached up to his throat, clenching ineffectually in the neck of his robes, as an agonizing rasp echoed from his lips.

          He struggled with himself for a moment before he pointed again at the bottle, then at the door that lead Maker only knew where. Fenris looked at the door, then back at the vial, mind churning as he tried to suss out what it was that Anders wanted. The man frustrated with his lacking communication mimed drinking from the glass and it clicked.

          “You want to find the man that gave that to you?” Fenris ventured and was rewarded with a clapping of hands and a wry smile. He sighed, turning to look to the other door, trying to gauge just how long they had before an army burst through it. Sighing deeply he extended a hand and made his way to the door.

          “We will try, I can promise no more. We have to hurry.” The Mage went willingly, fingers lacing with the Elf’s and huddling close.

         

***

 

          The corridor that led from the door was eerily quiet, their footsteps quiet and quick as they skulked down the hallway. Daring hardly to breath lest they be found, they moved along the shadows in between sconces. A door at the end of the passage loomed in the half-light, and Fenris tugged the Mage along behind him as he moved.

          A fool’s errand, he mused to himself, they should be arming themselves and attempting to leave the Den. Not trekking further into the depths of it. But Anders had been so insistent and he was loathe to deny him this. Whatever potion they had drugged him with, Anders needed answers. And Fenris would be damned if they didn’t find them. His Lyrium pulsated with his thoughts, flaring along his naked form as he stepped over the stones.

          Before long they were pressed against the stone doorway, Fenris motioning to Anders to wait as he pressed the door open slowly. In the crack he could see a dingy room, the cold of the room seeping through the small opening and chilling his flesh. A strong scent of herbs reached his nose and he crinkled it, nostrils flaring as it tickled. Inching the door open more he peered into the gloomy room, spying the weasely man some distance beyond, his attention on some tome in his hand.

          A small gesture to Anders had the Mage settling back into a corner, a flash of chagrin crossed Anders’ features before settling into a worried scowl. Fenris grit his teeth and slammed the door open, igniting his Lyrium and ghosting through the room. It was painful, muscles screaming out from disuse and wounds pulling painfully as he shot through the chamber. He ignored it, teeth gritting as he bowled the man over, a strong arm pinning him by the neck and a hand through his chest.

          Behind him, Fenris could hear the whisper soft footsteps of Anders moving to his side. The Mage held up the vial in the light of the torches and looked to the man imperiously. Confusion laced mousy features and he looked to the Elf for an explanation.

          “That potion, what is it?” He growled, fingers glancing over organs.

          “An aphrodisiac,” Was the unhelpful answer, Anders hissing out a breath and miming to Fenris, all of which went over the Elf’s head save that it was not a suitable answer for the Healer.

          “You can do better than that, I’m sure.” Fingers raked along the slick membranes of vulnerable innards and the man squealed loudly.

          “I have the recipe in my book, if you let me up I’ll fetch it for you.” Nasally, high pitched whining. It agitated Fenris and he had to restrain himself from just ripping the man’s heart out just then. He looked to Anders who had moved from his side and was scouring the books that were laid out on benches and tables. He gestured to the sea of them, eyes wide and disconcerted.

          “Where is it? Tell me, and I _might_ let you go.” Fenris lowered his head, teeth bared as he growled.

          “B-by the cauldron, leather bound, black.”

          An exclamation from Anders and Fenris let up slightly, allowing the man to take a heaving breath before he was shoved back down. Anders had moved back to his side, flicking through the book, eyebrows furrowed as he read furiously. He found something and widened the book marginally, before flipping it around and shoving it to the man’s face.

          “Is that it?” Fenris glanced at Anders who was stoic, face impassive and eyes guarded.

          “Y-yes, Messere. Let me go I be – .”

          His sentence was cut off as Fenris clawed inelegantly in his chest cavity, allowing his hand to un-phase and grasp the fluttering heart in his palm. A vicious yank and he wrenched his hand free, blood and viscera exploding from the wound. Anders turned away from the sight, shoulders heaving as he fought for composure. Book in his hands he stalked his way to a chest of herbs and tinctures, pulling a knapsack from the floor and thrusting the contents into the leather sack.

          Fenris scoured the room, finding a pair of breeches that fit marginally and pulling them on. A small pair of knives were added to his pockets as he waited for Anders to finish, the Mage pulling out robes and shrouds to bundle himself in, he let out a small laugh as he found a set of leather boots. Pulling them on and lacing them tightly he motioned to Fenris and shouldered the pouch of potions and herbs, moving to the door only to recoil as he looked out.

          Fenris was at his side in a second, pulling the Mage back and looking around the door. Just beyond it was a pair of soldiers, their swords drawn, armor clanking. He pulled back and laid his head on the doorway for a moment before looking to the frightened Mage beside him.

          “Stay here, I’ll come back for you.” Words whispered, a brush of his lips across a cheek and then he was slipping out the door, closing it softly behind him.

 

***

          It was a study in agonizing patience. Anders could scarcely breathe as he waited. He cursed himself for allowing Fenris to fight his battle for him, berating himself as seconds ticked by.

          He was a Grey Warden, a hardened Apostate with martial ability, and yet… And yet, here he was cowering behind a bloody door as Fenris threw himself headlong into a battle with no aide. His heart palpitated as he leaned against the stone ingress, ears straining for any hint of what might be going on beyond the door.

          One breath, two…and it was all he could take. Blustering anger welling at his inability to make himself open the door and face what was beyond. Icy brands of fear encircled him, holding him in its thrall. A low moan escaping him as he stiffly reached for the latch, throat burning as the vibrations rumbled in his throat. It felt like his body wouldn’t respond to his will, stiff and unyielding even as his hand clenched on the handle.

          A push against the door had him skittering back, legs catching uselessly in the swathe of cloth he’d adorned himself in. Sending him sprawling back against the stone floor, keening lowly as he crawled away from the door, under a table and folding in on himself. Hands clawing at the granite beneath him as he trembled, breath ragged and painful as he sucked in lungful’s. Too loud, he was too loud.

          From beyond the table he watched as armored legs entered, and he stuffed a fist to his mouth. Eyes clenching shut as he clamored with the fear in his breast. Heartbeat ringing in his ear drums, a white noise that drowned out all else as he panicked.

          A firm grip on his ankle had him screaming, voice ripping from his damaged vocal chords. Finger nails catching on the lip of stone as he struggled, feet kicking and body bucking away from his attacker. He was flipped harshly, fingers digging at his arms and he wailed and fought, dragging nails against the armor uselessly. The next instant his arms were pinned and he cried out, broken sobs echoing through the room as he lay there defenseless.

          Soft fingers dragged against his face and he started in surprise. The gentleness of the touch, eyes slowly opening as they continued to dance along his skin. Above him, shimmering through his tears, the shock of white against dusky brown skin. Fenris. A burble of shock resonated through him, and his body went limp, chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath.

          Fenris was talking to him, but in the aftershocks of his fit he was unable to make out the words. Staring unseeingly at the Elf as he spoke, tears running from the corners of his eyes as he greedily soaked in the sight of Fenris.

 

***

          It had been a hard won fight, tired and aching as he was. The edge of surprise had been their undoing. Lyrium flaring brightly as he took down one, a knife stabbing deeply into his neck. The second had let out a cry of alarm before slashing quickly with his blade, Fenris had only had a split second to roll out of its path. He gained his feet and jumped at the man, only to have to dodge yet another thrust of a sword. A single dirk clutched tightly in his hand as he waited for an opening.

          He tested the guard’s defense, striking as he could before bolting out of reach. His stamina was waning and his Lyrium was guttering, hand tightening on the miniscule blade he wielded. Circling the man as he waited as patiently as he could, eyes glancing furtively along the corridor. Praying with all he was that they would not be joined with more Guards just yet, the man sensing his worry became more bold. Swinging heavily and backing Fenris against the door, he grimaced as he parried with the small blade. Fingers ringing with the vibrations of the heavy hits.

          Fighting with his Lyrium he bellowed as it flared, dropping the blade and reaching with both hands to grasp inside the man’s torso. He clawed relentlessly, shredding the soft insides, pushing the man down and gouging through his innards. Blood washed up his naked arms, dripping from his fingers as he pulled his hands free and leant back against the stone door.

          Catching his breath he stood and began divesting the corpses of their jerkins, cuirasses and light armor. He dressed himself quickly, sheathing a long sword at his hip and kicking the bodies from the door. Armed and rapidly tiring he re-entered the room, the door opening to an empty chamber. He scanned the expanse, looking for doorways and other exits. Nothing. Where was Anders’?

          A soft cry from under a table caught his attention, and he knelt down and pushed a hand under catching a limb and gently dragging the Mage from under it. He hadn’t expected Anders’ to devolve into a panicked animal, wounded noises reverberating from his throat, eyes wheeling madly and fingers gouging at stones as he was pulled from under the bench.

          His breath caught as he watched Anders’ wail, momentarily taken aback before his need to soothe overcame him. He gently pinned the man, caressing the skin of his face, crooning soft words and pressing his forehead to the Mage’s. Willing for the man to calm, smothering him in his presence and scent. Something must have gotten through, because Anders stilled, eyes opening to gaze up at him. Eyes cloudy with tears and whimpers escaping his lips, he pressed their cheeks together, hands rising to pull through the Mage’s hair.

          In time his breathing evened out and Fenris gently lifted him to standing. Anders pressed heavily into his side, fingers clenched in the stolen cuirass, as if he thought that he was merely a figment of his eyes.

          He brought one of the hands to his lips and pulled the Mage forward, there was no time. As much as he wished he could calm the man, they needed to hurry. He led them down the hall and back to the suite that held Danarius’ corpse, stopping only to take food from a table. Filling the sack that the Mage still had on his back. He tied it off quickly and helped Anders’ shoulder it once more before moving to the far door and peering out into the corridor beyond.

          It was suspiciously vacant, and it riled his nerves. Where were the soldiers? To the left held the dungeons, so he went right. Fear pushing him ever faster as he led Anders down the hall. A splitting of the corridor halted their progress and he dithered for only a moment before turning left. More doors, more hallways. His breath panting as he edged them into a run, another turn and he could feel the cold breeze whipping at his flesh, moving faster they bolted down the passage until they were standing at an open grotto.

          Tents and wagons filled the expanse, the sounds of men calling to each other and raucous laughter filling the air. Bands of terror coiling around his chest as he skittered back into a shadowy area.

          There were so many, and he was at his limit. He looked to Anders, the man’s face white with fear, body tremoring as he looked across the cave. A soft nickering caught his attention, and he peered over the rocks they were cowering behind. A small cordoned section held the pack animals that Danarius had been using. He nudged the Mage and nodded at the Horses, Anders looked between them and the soldiers beyond and looked at him with wide eyes.

          Fenris could only shrug helplessly. They were pinned, and he couldn’t see a way out of it. The Mage’s mouth thinned and he handed off the pack to the Elf. Motioning him closer to the animals. Slowly they made their way into the fence, Fenris choosing a larger horse and carefully sidling up to it. He turned back to Anders to help him on only to see the Mage moving to the outskirts of the enclosure. He hissed lowly only to get a hand gesturing at him wildly. Gritting his teeth he lifted himself on to the animal and watched as Anders raised his hands.

 

***

          Shaking with every step that brought him closer to the edge of the camp Anders’ lifted his hands and dug as deep as he could possibly go into Mana. Concentrating on what little power he still wielded he began to incant, straining against the enchantments that bound him still. A quickening of the Magic under his skin flared and he fed it slowly, scraping at the very bottom of his reserve.

          A booming crack of thunder rolled in the cave and the soldiers fell deathly silent, he struggled for a moment. The drag of his Mana like shards of glass imbedding in him as he hollow himself out, keening at the pain of it. A flare of fire fell from the middle of his spell, crashing far beyond where they stood. Drawing attention away from the enclosure, and opening a path. Still he fed the spell, pushing the last of his mana into it before allowing it to unfold.

          Balls of fire spewed from the epicenter, flashes of lightning crackling along metal and flesh, total chaos reigned. Taking advantage of the confusion he kicked open the gate and allowed the herd of pack animals to flee, adding to the pandemonium. A hand on the back of his robes lifted him from where he stood and he fought for only a moment before he realized it was Fenris, helping him to mount the horse he had chosen. Drained and hurting he leaned heavily against the Elf, tucking his hands around his hips and holding on tightly.

          Spurring the animal on, they bolted from the enclosure. Ducked low and watching as the mouth of the cave drew nearer, bright light a beacon in the dark. Urging the beast on faster, he gripped Fenris hips as they flew into the cold winter air, a croaking cry of exultant delight as they escaped at last.

 

***

          They rode for hours, calculating the time by the movement of the sun. Anders had laughed happily as he reveled in its light. The sound bright and clear as they moved, fighting against the blustery winds and snowfall that was growing every heavier, despite the cloudless sky. He wanted to put as much distance as they possibly could between the Slavers and them. He hunkered down behind the head of the horse, wrapped snugly in the robe that Anders had proffered to him. In the distance he could see another outcropping of a mountain. It wasn’t nearly as far as he wished, but they were running out of time. The sun had long since reached its highest point and was now flaring into dusk.

They’d barely had time to find shelter from the wintery night before the moons began their assent, the sun slipping below the horizon with a flash of pink. Anders had rubbed the horse down with a spare veil and used it to tie the animal off to a boulder in the back of the cave they had found, away from the biting winds. He sank down beside Fenris and they huddled together, sharing body heat and the robes the Mage had taken. A few empty vials had been stuffed with snow, and gradually thawed for them to drink, which he’d thirstily accepted.

         Anders’ had managed to find enough logs and scrap wood to flare into a dancing fire, which they huddled around gratefully. The pack was opened under the robes and they shared a loaf of bread and fruits between them. Satiated for the moment they had fallen into an uneasy sleep, waking at each sound that echoed in the cave. Fenris had urged Anders to rest, and had kept careful watch after the third time they’d woken.

          He was just beginning to doze off when he heard booted feet crunching in the snow beyond the mouth of the cave. He tensed and reached for the broadsword he had claimed. Carefully moving from the warm blankets he stealthily made his way to the entrance. Ears straining as he listened.

          A twig snapped just beyond and he hurtled out, sword raised and Lyrium flashing. He tackled the body skulking just beyond and they went careening down a slight hill, wrestling as they went to get the upper hand. They came to rest at the foot of the mountain, grappling and snarling as they tussled. He flipped them and raised his hand, brands flaring brightly in the night as he brought it down.

          Only to stop as the light shone on a familiar face.

          “Isabela?”

 

***

 

          Garrett was moodily examining a map, planning yet another trek into the Wildervale with Varric. Fingers sketching along an as of yet unsearched area. The Dwarf bent close to the map, outlining a possible route and rubbing at his forehead when a horn sounded. He dropped the map and straightened, shock spreading across his face as another sounded.

          Hawke looked in the direction of the sound, heart thudding as the cacophony of thunderous hooves could be heard in the outskirts of the camp. He looked to Varric in question, the Dwarf raising Bianca and stepping from the tent.

          “Varric?”

          “One blast for usual trouble, two for slavers, and thr - ,” He was cut off by a resonating blast. Garrett stepped forward, hand gripping his staff as the shadows of riders could be seen appearing in the darkness.

          “Three? Is it, Varric.” A heavy hand gripped Varric’s shoulder and he could only look at his friend, relief brightening his face. Garrett wanted to shake his friend and demand answers, but the riders were upon them, barreling through. His eyes scanning the bodies as they rushed past. Beside him Sebastian and Merrill had made their way to the forefront, called by the horn blasts and the sound of riders. The look of hope on their faces was too much for him, he couldn’t allow himself to hope until he saw for himself. Until they stood before him, hale and whole.

          A rider diverted from the rush and a lithe body dropped gracefully from the animal. A glint of gold studs in a tanned face and he was striding forward, arms wrapping desperately around Isabela’s biceps. The words wouldn’t come, so great was the emotion roiling in him, it stole his very breath. Large hands trembling as he searched her face for the answer he so desperately craved.

          Varric came to his rescue, moving quickly to her side and very nearly dancing in the spot.

          “Three blasts, Rivaini…they…you - ,” Varric stumbled over his words, a hopeful cast over a halting question that was near whispered.

          Isabela took in their expressions and she smiled softly, wriggling out of Hawke’s hands and turning to watch the last of the procession, a large covered wagon at the very end. They waited in bated silence as it neared, then rolled to a gentle stop. She beckoned them to follow her and moved around the side.

          Low voices, a loud bang as the back was lowered. The group stood off to the side as the injured were off loaded, Hawke stood through it all glancing at each body that exited. Hands tightening in his robes as he searched, Isabela wouldn’t get them riled for nothing. But where?

          As the wagon emptied two lone figures stood in the back, leaning against each other and hobbling the length of the cart. His breath caught as they moved forward, one stepping down and helping his companion to the ground. A whispered word between them and Isabela and their hoods were pushed back.

          Garrett stumbled forward, overcome with the emotion that was threatening to consume him. Anders and Fenris stood hands clasped between them, looking at them in confusion. Fenris wrapped his arm around the Mage, offering comfort as he stared them down.

          Joy washed through Garrett as he took in the sight, after so long looking for them. He raised his hands and took a step forward only to find himself at the end of a sword. Fenris had backed up quickly, dragging Anders along with him. The Mage peeked out fearfully from the embrace he was nestled in. It took Garrett’s breath away, the fury and fear that marred his love’s expression. He edged backwards somewhat, just enough that the sword quavered in the air.

          “Fenris?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not pleased with this chapter.
> 
> There is a saddening lack of words to describe fear, hatred, anger, despair. Such paltry words to  
> explain an emotion so powerful. Language is at it's best, redundant and foolishly frail. 
> 
> Why Anders needed that book so much will become clear, I know it's an odd segment for me to focus on.
> 
> This chapter will probably be edited...I feel like it was ...a little too quick...not natural...hmpf
> 
> On Garrett Hawke.
> 
> All I can really say is, apologies? I never intended for him to be so dickish... I play a very blue Hawke in the game,  
> so afraid am I of hurting anyone's feelings. >_>;;;
> 
> He's got a lot of character building to do, which...I hope comes to pass. I have plans for that man.
> 
> Another thing that I've noticed I've forgotten to mention....ah ...forgive me my spelling errors, grammatical errors   
> and such. English is not my first language so that maybe why my writing is choppy and ....blech... I promise I'm in the process of finding a beta...


	22. Alone: Part Nine (Reunions and Revelations)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This took a lot longer than I planned to get out.
> 
> I apologize for the wait, I will explain in the notes below.

          It had taken over a week of travel in the back of the wagon, huddled close together and watching the men that surrounded them warily. Isabela had done her best to catch them up to speed on all that had been going on. Sitting with them for hours and detailing everything for them. Anders had seemed to soak up her story, hands clasping hers as he listened to her talk about the search party they had raised. Fenris…was hesitant, not that he doubted they had searched, that they had gathered as many people as they could to go after them. His doubt lay solely in her depiction of the fervent, almost manic way Garrett had reacted.

          He was convoluted in his placement of the blame, it wasn’t entirely Hawke’s fault that they had been taken. He hadn’t known of the meeting and therefore wasn’t privy to the danger it had held. But if he had only listened to Fenris, he was certain they wouldn’t have been captured. That Garrett had refused to listen, had snapped at him as he tried to explain his misgivings, was where he held contempt.

          It added to his fervor, that had Garrett listened to him, Anders would not have been in that Tavern that day. That was where the blame split, heaped on both sides of the line to lay neatly at both Garrett’s and his feet. That Anders had been enslaved alongside him, was in both parts each of their fault. Garrett for denying him the aide he had so sorely needed, and himself for even involving him in the first place. It ate at him, guilt and a dreadful gut wrenching sadness that gnawed his insides.

          How long before Anders looked at him and saw the cause of his misery, how long did he have before the Mage began to lay the blame on him? He didn’t think he could bear to watch, whatever it was that was slowly blossoming between them, begin to wither and eventually die as the Mage began to find guilt within him. His arms tightened infinitesimally around Anders’ as his thoughts became more and more toxic. It was a terrible feeling, and he felt physically ill with his considerations.

          He watched the Mage as he listened to Isabela’s story, not wishing to begrudge him the comfort it was visibly imbuing. His face was relaxed, posture loose and content where he was nestled against Fenris’ chest. Disturbed greatly with his thoughts, he buried his face into the crook of Anders’ neck, feeling comforted with the familiar warmth and scent of the man. He couldn’t stop Anders’ blaming him, he didn’t wish to try, but he’d take comfort in him for as long as he was allowed.

 

***

 

          Not much longer after he had settled against Anders, Isabela took her leave. Handing them blankets and cloaks to shield from the bitter cold and calling a halt to the wagon for her to climb down and return to her horse. The Mage was nodding in his arms, eyes heavy and body lax as he fought off his exhaustion. He could understand the uneasiness that came with shutting his eyes, too often had they closed them only to open them in an entirely new place. There was little he could do to soothe that fear, aside from crooning the lullaby he had taken to singing under his breath. The Mage had wriggled in his lap and arranged his long limbs as comfortably as he could before squashing his face into a shoulder and sighing as he got settled.

          Isabela checked up on them frequently for the remainder of the trip, passing out bundles of food and skins of water. Few words were spoken between them, the silence awkward as they looked at each other. He felt ashamed of the generosity, beholden to her for her kindness. She watched as he took the packages, one hand kept on Anders’ shoulder. A mixture of pity and compassion pulling at her features. It distressed him to see such an expression on her face, his own burning humiliation as she offered a grim smile and urged her horse on.

          When Anders’ had awoken he had offered the man portions of meat and slices of bread. The Mage had picked at the food, only putting some into his mouth at Fenris’ urging, before gulping down water as if he couldn’t stand the textures in his mouth. He fed Fenris in turn, tearing off bite-sized pieces and placing them in his mouth, watching carefully as he chewed. Fenris allowed him this, muttering under his breath about pushy Mage Healers as he did so. It had brought a small smile to Anders’ lips as he continued his ministrations.

          Anders had spent most of the second day rummaging through the knapsack and reading from the book they had taken from the Herbalist. Fenris had watched in mild curiosity as the Healer had sorted through the herbs, placing them carefully around him in the rocking wagon. Tugging Fenris’ hand forward Anders had balanced the book in it, reading passages and matching potions as he sorted. It went on like that for hours, until the book was taken and repacked neatly with the tinctures and herbs. Two vials lay in his lap, one a bright blue and the other green, as he worked and it caught Fenris’ attention.

          The blue one was placed in his hand and Anders watched expectantly as the Elf swallowed it down. A wave of healing bliss arced through him, and the muscles that had been twinging soothed as it washed through him. He watched as the Mage downed his own vial, the vivid green liquid draining through the lip as Anders swallowed. A shudder ran through him, and he pressed back into the lee of Fenris body with a sigh, the vial slipping through his fingers as he settled.

          A niggling thought burrowed in his mind and he reached for the vial, slipping it into a pocket to inspect later.

 

***

 

          They had relocated into a back corner of the wagon, so as to shield themselves from the howling winter winds that assaulted the caravan as it traveled. Isabela occasionally reappearing to check in with them, passing bundles of food and fresh skins of water to them as her horse strode aside the wagon. Fenris had silently taken what was offered and packed it away in a spare pack they had been given. He was loathe to wake Anders, the Mage exhausted from their escape and from continually emptying his mana reserves to help finish healing his back.

         It struck him as odd that as much as the Mage was capable of healing his whip marks, he wouldn’t do the same for his own injuries. The brand of bruises that encircled his neck was only just beginning to fully bloom under his skin. A myriad of purples and blues, deep painful looking colors that drew his attention every time he looked at Anders. He had asked him, pulling him close and leaning their foreheads together as the man trembled in his arms. Anders had tried his best to convey his reasons, but lacking words as well a way to write them down for Fenris to read, he could only stare in consternation at the Elf.

          Disconcerting though it was to not be able to hear the voice that had become so familiar to him, they managed instead to find new ways to communicate. Building off of their penchant for closeness and familiarity, scent, touch and facial cues became ever more important. A small gesture calming Anders when someone pushed too close for comfort, the Mage’s nuzzling at his neck or chest a soothing balm that chased away his disturbing thoughts.

          When the procession stopped for the night, Isabela was waiting for them as they slowly disembarked, leading them to a tent and allowing them to hide away out of sight. Something that Fenris was greatly relieved for, and he had a feeling that Anders was of a similar mind. Food and drink was brought for them before they were left to their own devices again. Their time was spent sleeping for the most part, still exhausted from their ordeal, and interspersed with trying to recondition their stomachs to regular meals.

          The Healer in Anders had shone through, the first time that Fenris had gone a little over board with the rich chops of a boar someone had brought down. Gagging piteously as his stomach punished him for his overindulgences. Anders had taken control of the flow of food from then on, rationing what they were given. Reminiscent of his treatment when they had first begun it all those months ago, he smiled softly as Anders worked himself into a right state. Wordless still, but all the same he was beginning to be able to read the man’s so expressive was his face, annoyance and concern plain as day on his features.

          A steady stream of potions becoming a staple in their routine. One each every morning, a blue one for him that sent a thrumming wave of healing bliss along his body. He was unsure what the green tincture was that Anders downed, it did not seem to dissipate the scratches and bruises that still stood starkly against pale skin. He’d cocked his head at Anders in question only to receive a shake of a blonde head, and he left it at that. Sure that when he was able, Anders would tell him.

          Isabela showed up that day, drawing close to the wagon’s wall and talked to them between the awning’s gaps. Informing them that they were close to the base and that they’d be arriving before afternoon. It had set his heart racing, fear lacing his thoughts as he mulled over this new information and the thoughts he’d been keeping at bay. Something must have betrayed his inner turmoil, not only to Anders but to Isabela as well.

          “As soon as we dock, I can make excuses and led you to your tents. You can get reacquainted slowly, in your own time.” She hedged, guessing correctly that he was uneasy about the reunion that was drawing ever closer.

          Anders tugged him closer, a hand running through his hair in a soothing manner as he fought to breathe. He missed the Mage’s answer, too focused on restraining his anxiety. When he next looked the Pirate had drifted away again, leaving the two of them alone. Anders peered down at him, worry straining his features as he stroked along Fenris’ face.

          “I…” The words caught in his throat, fear stealing his voice as he cast about for the right words. Anders had only pulled him closer. His mouth at his ear as he coached his breathing, occasionally sighing or humming as he soothed the Elf.

          They sat like that for the remainder of the trip, tucked away in their corner. Clinging to each other as they were brought one step closer to freedom and away from the horror they had left behind.

 

***

          The blasts from horns blowing in the distance roused him some hours later and he straightened. Voices were calling from outside the wagon, and out the back he could see tents and a crowd of people gathering. The men and women around him seemed to take this as a cue and they began to stand and collect their things. Bodies jostling them and rocking the wagon woke Anders and the Mage started before relaxing somewhat in Fenris’ arms. The dray slowed to a halt and the back was lowered, people moving to exit and leaving them at the very end. Anders shot him a frightened look before they also got to their feet and hefted their belongings, hooded cloaks pulled tightly around them. Legs shaky from sitting so long they clung to each other, helping the other walk the rickety frame to the exit. Isabela stood just beyond the awning, a look of relief upon her face. They clambered down, checking their balance before they allowed themselves to lower their hoods. Just beyond where Isabela stood was…

          His teeth clenched at the sight of Garrett, heart palpitating in his chest as he drew ever closer to Anders. The mountain of a man moved forward, hands up and face brightening as he drew closer.

          A split decision, fear and anger lacing his movements as he unsheathed his sword and leveled it at Hawke. Snarling lowly under his breath as he pushed Anders’ behind him, shielding him from whatever reaction came.

          He watched warily as Garrett stared down the sword, shock evident on his face as Fenris held the blade aloft. Behind them, their companions had taken a step forward and he growled lowly at them. Pushing Anders’ back against the carriage and moving the blade slowly to each in turn. A hand on his arm had him starting badly, face whipping around to find Isabela’s scant inches from his. He shuffled sideways, trying to avoid her touch but she followed.

          “Now then, Hawke. They’ve made themselves quite clear, perhaps we should wait a moment before we crowd them anymore.” Her voice was soft, soothing and she kept eye contact, her other hand reaching for the pommel of his blade. He glared at her for half a moment before allowing his hand to drop, the tip cutting into the thick frost at his feet. A small smile graced her lips for a moment before she was turning to face Hawke, Merrill, Varric and Sebastian.

          “I’m going to get them settled, perhaps we should wait till they have had a chance to breathe before we attempt to talk.” Voice brooking no argument, hands falling to sit firmly on her hips as she spoke. Garrett looked as if he was about to argue before Sebastian nodded and clapped a hand to the Mage’s shoulder.

          “Fair enough, they’ve had a rough time of it. Allow them to unspool a second, Garrett. Its shock as it is being back around us, no doubt. Isabela, when you’ve finished we’ll be waiting in Varric’s tent.”

          The Pirate nodded sharply before turning to Fenris and gesturing for him to move away from their friends and to follow behind her. He kept time with her pace, moving only a couple steps behind as she wound her way through the sea of tents. She checked a couple before finding one that was vacant.

          “You were supposed to have one near the rest of the Misfits, but I have an inkling you’re not gonna want to see anyone for at least a couple hours.” She pulled back a flap and allowed them to crawl in before sticking her head in for a moment and continuing.

          “We’ll have to wait for the rest of the search party to be called back, give or take a day or so. Rest, I’ll have someone bring food along later.” A cursory nod and then she was withdrawing from the tent and leaving them alone.

          Anders watched him closely as he sucked in a breath, chest heaving as he fought to regain his composure. He looked at the Mage, eyes dark with emotion before he turned to the tent and entered, hand tugging Anders along into it behind him. They had been granted a brief respite, and he intended to take advantage of it for as long as it lasted. He was unsure of just what would occur when he had to face Hawke again, of whether he would be able to even face the man. A hand on his face pulled him from his thought and he looked at the man at his side, eyes worried and mouth downturned in concern. He pulled Anders back into his embrace and nestled his face into the collar of the man’s robes.

          He had no way of knowing what would happen, but as he relaxed against Anders’ body he felt hope that he would not be left to deal with the aftermath alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems I will end up with the even numbered Alone chapters I wanted.
> 
> The next one is the last one I promise.
> 
> As you know, this is now almost completely AU. I'm taking cues from the games, but I'm following the timeline  
> with my own agenda.  
> There is a plan now, and everything from here on out is with the point of getting there.
> 
> This was only supposed to be a short sappy story about my favorite pairing, and now it's developed quite past  
> my expectations. Funny how that happens..
> 
>  
> 
> ______________________
> 
>  
> 
> It's been a long couple of days.
> 
> Very long. As most of you know, I've recently lost my job. I received my last paycheck from  
> it, and I thought that I was going to be ok, I had enough money to cover everything until my new job's  
> paycheck could kick in. Well, on Friday I woke early to go pay bills and my rent, so I could manage the  
> last of what money I had. Only to find that they had rescinded my last check. As such I was left with about  
> $100. They took the money that I was going to use for rent, right out from under my nose.  
> I inquired as to why they did that, and after a shady explanation about vacation days and such I was  
> told to quit calling and to have a good life.
> 
> While I do have a new job, as of last wednesday, I won't receive a check until two weeks from tomorrow. And my bills are due in three days. I've been applying anywhere and everywhere for a second job, to try and fix this.
> 
> I'm asking for help, as a very last resort. It hurts my pride, and my self-respect to be thrown into this and I don't do it  
> lightly.
> 
> I've set up a GoFundMe, to raise money to pay for my rent and other bills until my first check arrives.
> 
> You can find it here:
> 
> www.gofundme.com/30xvjfk  
>  
> 
> Guys. please understand, I am asking for help out of desperation. But you are under no obligation to do so.
> 
> You didn't click on this story to hear me whine about my problems and I get that, and under any other circumstances I wouldn't be doing this at all.
> 
> I am not going to beg for donations every new chapter, it's this one and that's it. I will not be holding chapters hostage, and I will not continue to detail my problems in later chapters.
> 
> If you can donate, awesome. If not, don't worry about it. I'm not trying to guilt trip anyone, and I don't know how else to phrase how truly awful I feel about having to ask at all.
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks,
> 
> Amrie


	23. Alone: Part Ten (Fractures)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wanted this to be longer, but I couldn't stretch it any further.
> 
> So...I'll post this and then have another chapter for you tomorrow...hopefully.
> 
> I'm sleepy...XD

          Sebastian tugged him along quite forcefully through the camp. Not relinquishing him until they had made it to the main pavilion. Garrett had silently gone with him, head bowed and shoulders hunched as they passed tents and people. The air was filled with people calling out to each other, packing unnecessary supplies and readying the camp for the march home. Varric dawdled behind them, relaying the message that the search was over and that any remaining parties should return immediately. Messengers scurried about, climbing astride horses and heading out. It was a hollow sort of noise, one he paid little attention to, so focused was he on replaying the events that had transpired.

          Once they had made it back to the marquee he had pulled himself from Sebastian’s grip and stalked to one of the empty benches, sitting heavily. Eyes glancing over the maps and papers that littered the table, jaw tightening as he stared at the parchment. No one seemed willing to break the uneasy silence that had descended, breaths loud as they stood awkwardly in a huddle just beyond where he sat. Someone cleared their throat, Sebastian if he had to hazard a guess, and he tensed minutely. Long minutes stretched as he waited for the Brother to speak. When nothing was forthcoming he glanced up.

          Only to cringe mentally when he saw the concern and tension layered upon their faces.  Varric was standing just inside, hands wringing fitfully as he stood in place. Merrill looked lost, expression mournful and anxious. Sebastian looked contemplative, as if forming words in his head, but unwilling to voice them aloud. Garrett’s shifted in his seat, moving to stand when Isabela came stalking into the tent. Moving into the middle of the group and looked at them each in turn, clucking her tongue at the silence that reigned.

          “Maker, you’re acting as if someone _died_.” She said brusquely. Shaking her head and turning to Hawke with an arched brow.

          He leveled a glare at her, mouth opening to retort, only to be stopped short when she raised a hand and sighed.

          “Don’t. I realize that you all want to see them. They’re shell shocked, it hasn’t sunk in just yet that they’re safe. Give them time, let them get reacquainted with you slowly.”

          It was not what he wanted to hear, this storm that raged inside him had not abated as he thought it would. It had only become more destructive and desperate when Fenris had leveled his blade at him. The image of fear and anger marring the Elf’s features burned into his mind. Garrett fidgeted, hands curling into the fabric of his trousers as he fought to shore up the turmoil in his heart.

          Isabela had continued to talk while he had waged war with himself, only becoming aware of this when they had all turned to him for an answer.

          “What?” Curt, sharp. Isabela’s eyes narrowed slightly at the inquiry before deigning to repeat her question.

          “I said, what are we to do now? No doubt Fenris and Anders would very much like to return to Kirkwall as soon as possible. Perhaps we can move them ahead of the main party?” The words were calculating, eyes lowering to the map splayed on the tabletop.

          “Varric’s been sending out messengers, I’d say it’s safe to pack up and start the march home, tomorrow perhaps.” His words were quiet, monotonous as he picked at threads along his robe.

          If Isabela noticed she gave no visible indication. She nodded, turning back to Varric to ascertain the locations of the remaining parties. Garrett tuned them out, wanting nothing more than to seek out Fenris and demand answers. Barring that, perhaps indulging in more of Merrill’s sleep potion and being escaping the razor sharp thoughts that were clamoring in his head.

          A hand was laid upon his shoulder and he looked up sharply to see Sebastian looking down at him with some concern. It irked him. Anger bubbling up and nearly spilling out through his tightly clenched teeth. The hand was withdrawn sharply, shock registering on his face as he looked at Garrett. Hawke stood suddenly, nearly tipping the bench he had been seated on over. The group turned and looked at him almost as one and he stumbled back a step.

          “I…” The words wouldn’t come, it was too much. Too much to sort through, too much to handle. He turned and fled the tent.

          Racing along the pathways between the canvas tents, heart beating hard in his chest as he gulped in deep breaths of the frigid air. The snapping of the frost underfoot almost deafening to his ears as he flew through the camp.  Lungs screaming as he huffed out billowing clouds of air, he could see his tent not far off and he forced himself faster. Pulling back the flaps and throwing himself inside. Ears ringing as he heaved in desperate pants, the thrum of his pulse drumming in his head.

          The emotions swirled rapidly, fear and anger clashing with the misery and doubts. His hands clenched tightly as he lay down on his bed roll, eyes watching the dance of shadows on the ceiling as he struggled to calm himself. Sounds of people moving around outside filtered in through the thin fabric and he focused on the muffled voices and footfalls.

          His anger was slowly churning in his belly, red hot and bright as it began to eclipse all else. Tinged with fear and clamoring to consume him. How foolish was he to believe that just getting Fenris and Anders back would make everything alright? That everything would fall back into place the way it had bee, simply because they had been returned was idiotic. He’d reacted selfishly, wanting nothing more than to pull Fenris and Anders to him and never let them leave. Not even considering whatever they had endured during their time with the Magister. Guilt oozed alongside the anger, foul and bitter as it laced with anger and fear.

          Fenris leveling his sword at him had hurt, badly. But that was nothing compared to the look of terror and fury that had graced his features, the look of panic in Anders’. Seeing that had cut him deeply, especially when paired with the knowledge that his decisions had been what had gotten them captured in the first place. Eyes squeezing shut against the litany of self-hatred, whispers of blame echoing in his mind.

          It was his fault, his own grievous fault. The lists of his guilt splaying out before him as he fidgeted in his tent.

          First it had been Father, off doing who knew what. If he’d trained harder, listened when Father had been trying to teach him to control his wild magic, he might have been allowed to go with him.…

          Bethany, sweet little Bethy. If he’d been less distracted and keeping an eye on her she would be alive, safely ensconced in the Estate in Kirkwall.

          Carver, who he’d foolishly allowed to accompany him on the Deep Roads expedition. Who’d fallen victim to the Blight and was taken in by the Grey Wardens, thanks only to Anders’ quick thinking.

          Mother, kidnapped and tortured by a madman. All because he wasn’t paying attention and wasn’t fast enough to save her.

          And now…Fenris and Anders had been taken from them because he’d decided to pay more attention to the brewing tensions between the Templars and the Mages. He’d been too embroiled in trying to fix Kirkwall than to pay any mind to Fenris. And they had paid the price.

          Nails raking down his arms as he tries to keep from screaming. Paranoia clamping his mouth shut, even as his chest burns with the need to howl. Conscious of the crowd just outside his tent. It was building, this rage. More painful than the scoring on his arms. Black motes swam before his eyes as he held in his cries, until he had to breathe. The sharp inhale making his head swim, as he allows himself to breathe again. A clearing of a throat catches him off guard and he startles.

          Merrill is looking at him through the tent flaps. Concern furrowing her brow as she watches him.

          “What?” He growls, voice deep and threatening. She extends a hand towards him, a small vial held tightly in her fingers.

          “Varric said you might need this.” She says soothingly as she moves closer. Tossing the bottle at him, the fading light glinting off the glass as he catches it neatly. Dipping his head in grudging thanks as he toys with it.

          “Thank you, Merrill. I…I appreciate it.” He mumbled, lips thin and jaw tight. She cocked her head at him in curiosity, gauging his expression. Seemingly realizing the truly foul mood he was in and slipping from the tent with nary a word more. It only served to blacken his mood further. Glaring at the vial in his hand and contemplating the sweet oblivion it would bring. It felt like cowardice on his tongue, the bitter taste filling his mouth as he drank. It didn’t take long, dragging him under into a dreamless sleep.

***

 

          Fenris watched Anders toy with the food that had been brought for them. The Mage carefully tearing the bread loaf into bite sized pieces before laying them back down into the roughhewn trencher. It was only after he began shredding the meat that Fenris took over. Wrapping his hand around thin wrists and pulling Anders into his lap.

          Reaching into the pile of shredded bread he selected a piece and lifted it to tightly clenched lips.

          “Anders…”

          A soft grunt and a shake of his head, which bowed low to rest against his chest. He tried again, rough nails catching chapped lips as he tried to get the Healer to eat. Anders turned his head yet further into his chest, tucking his nose into the crease of his underarm. Releasing the man’s wrists to run along the shorn edges of his hair in a show of comfort. He sighed deeply as a warm, wet sensation on his tunic caught his attention, as the Mage sucked the fabric into his mouth. Seeking comfort in Fenris’ familiar smell, the warmth from his body, and the soothing feel of the fabric on his tongue.

          He allowed it for a short while, before he started to press again. His fingers trailing hesitantly over the bruises that he could see decorating the nape of Anders’ neck. His own throbbing dully just from the sight.

          “Anders?”

          He received a quiet hum in response that vibrated along his flesh.

          “Are you refusing to eat because it’s painful?” Voice quiet as he murmured the question into the soft fall of the Mage’s hair. Waiting patiently for him to respond.

          He watched as the Mage tensed for a moment, body going rigidly still in his arms before relaxing somewhat with a shrug. He pushed further into Fenris, gathering another section of his shift into his mouth.

          “If I asked for some stew or broth, do you think you’d be able to manage some of it?” Fenris winced as sharp teeth scraped across his skin for a moment before the Mage continued sucking, his head bobbing in affirmation.

          When it seemed the Mage wouldn’t move Fenris struggled to his feet, hands moving to cup under Anders’ thighs. Long fingers wrapped around his biceps, clenching near painful as he was jostled.

          “Am I to carry you, or will you use your legs Mage?” He chuckled dryly in Anders’ ear, wobbling on his own feet as he attempted to keep his hold on his lanky Mage.

          One after the other, Anders’ lowered his legs, gaining his feet and releasing Fenris’ tunic from his mouth. The Elf looked at the wet spot on his shirt with a sense of mild disgust, but pushed it aside with a glance at Anders’ stoic expression.

          Blank eyes stared ahead, not seeming to see him. A shiver ran down his spine as he watched the Healer. Far beyond the silence that so unnerved him, this brought on a wave of fear that rolled through him viciously.

          “Anders?” He ventured, voice unsteady and hands shaking.

          Dull eyes looked at him briefly at the sound of his name before darting away again. Lifting his hands to tightly clamp over the Mage’s cheeks, Fenris turned his head until he was looking him in the face.

          Anders’ pupils had dilated to mere specks, lost in the honey brown of his irises. Unseeing and blank as they stared at him. Almost like the man had suffered the Tranquil brand. The thought sent a fearful thrill through him, unbiased perhaps, but all the same.

          He cursed himself for not noticing the signs previously. Lack of appetite, the sedate demeanor. He’d seen it before in the faces of slaves that had been pushed too hard, too fast.

          Anders was in shock, his mind stressed to the point of breaking.

          He said as much, watching as the man processed what he said. Cataloging every muscle tick that flashed across Anders’ face.  The serene expression muddling in confusion for a heartbeat before it smoothed out again.

          Like he’d been close but had taken a wrong turn in his deduction. Concern gnawed at him, where had he misstepped?

          The low grumble of his stomach drew him up short. There was time to figure it out, a priority was getting something into their stomachs that wouldn’t cause Anders pain. Breathing a sigh Fenris dropped his hands from the Mage’s face and reached for his hand instead. Threading their fingers and leading him from the tent, he’d question more later.

 

***

 

          Anders was…lost. The thick fog that blanketed his mind dulled any of the hurt his body was enduring, as well as the sharpness of memories still too fresh. Blissful numbness held it all at bay, keeping it from the bleeding, raw wounds both visible and unseen.

          Fenris had asked a multitude of questions those first days, why he hadn’t he healed himself, why couldn’t he speak, why, why, why?

          He knew some of the extent of his injuries, had seen it before in a few of his patients. Bruised or severed vocal chords required a delicate hand, time and select medical supplies. He had the experience, no doubts there. Time he had in spades. But he’d had limited access to herbs, potions and other specialized necessities. If he’d tried to risk it without them, the best he could hope for was permanently damaged chords. Letting them heal on their own was almost as risky but he’d had little choice. He could only pray they’d reach Kirkwall in time for him to salvage even a part of his voice.

          To distract himself he’d taken to reading Cato’s recipe book. Sorting out the potions they had pilfered and searching for the one that had been forced on him. Serenus Venerum. The dissertation of it had troubled him. The contents of the potion on their own weren’t dangerous, outside the lyrium. However when brewed together their effects were numerous and long lasting, even after the potion had exited the body.

          Namely the Lyrium, which when taken in large doses or quantities. It didn’t take much to get hooked, and he was a consumer of Lyrium potions to begin with…

          He read further, learning the properties of the potion

          Blood Lotus: To calm the mind, too much can produce vivid hallucinations.

          Witherstalk: A muscle relaxing aphrodisiac with after effects that induced confusion and memory loss.

          Lyrium: To keep the subject craving another dose as well to compound the magical properties of the other Herbs.

          Dragonthorn: Stabilizes the mixture and deadens the senses.

          He’d dug through the vials, examining labels until he’d found the matching potion. The deep teal color shining innocuously in the crystal flask. There was a lurch in his belly, a wanting that he railed against. Already the sneaky tendrils of Lyrium were threatening to ensnare him if he gave an inch.

          Anders had thrust the bottle back into the pack, willfully ignoring it as he turned to the next page.  Cato had messily scrawled his notes along the next page, raving about a comparable potion that had been produced when he’d erred in the making of a batch. He’d created Animi Imperio by accidentally mismeasuring the ingredients he’d ended up with a sedative that left his subjects placid and biddable, even the most unruly. And unlike its predecessor, once imbibed it would last until something disrupted its potency. Be it food or drink, or another potion.

          Intrigued he’d dug once more into the pile of vials in his lap, shuffling them around and placing the book in Fenris’ hands as he searched. The described green color caught his eye, and he plucked the bottle from its fellows. The label and the color of the potion matched the descriptors in the Herbalist’s book, looking back to the pile in his lap he sorted fitfully until he uncovered several others. Assured that he had extras he flipped the book closed and selected a moderate healing potion for Fenris, before packing everything away neatly.

          He watched as Fenris drank his without question before downing his own. It hadn’t taken very long, whether because he’d had nothing in his belly or because the remnants of the previous potions made him more susceptible, he didn’t know. Leaning back into the wall of Fenris’ chest he felt the hold strengthen. The fog from before seeping in, dulling the star bright pain and emotions that were eating at him, giving himself over to it fully.

          Since that first day he’d taken it religiously, every morning before Fenris woke and before they slept at night. His dwindling supply had worried him, trying to take half doses before realizing that he’d already grown a tolerance for it. Isabela had accommodated his request for herbs, shakily pointing out the words in the book to her and motioning with his hands. A small purse of them had been delivered to him not long after.

          Brewing it was another matter entirely; he couldn’t slip away from Fenris to do so. The mere idea was terrifying, but brewing it in front of him wasn’t an option either. The Elf hadn’t questioned what he was taking, certainly he’d been watching him a question on his lips that he’d stifled visibly. Part of the reason he’d begun taking it in secret, the feeling that he was being deceitful and reckless had sprung up when he’d found the vial from the first day in his pockets. But he couldn’t bring himself to explain why he was taking it, why he had become so dependent on it to function, such as it was.

          So while Fenris had slept in the Wagon he’d motioned to Isabela and presented her with the book and the ingredients. She had looked at him strangely, but had agreed to have one of their company make it for him when they stopped for the night. He knew in time there would be questions, but for the time being he had a fresh supply of the Animi potion. Roughly enough to last until Kirkwall, where he’d be able to brew it in his own time and formulate his own version. Something subtler, one that wouldn’t rob him of all control.

 

***

 

          The Mage lagged behind him somewhat, dawdling as he was led along. It worried Fenris, but he pushed it aside, a mantra of later, later, later running through his head as he picked his way through the camp. Keeping well away from the bustling bodies that moved through the paths between tents and moving towards the large tent he could see near the outskirts. Being among so many people was disconcerting, flinching whenever someone drew too near, shielding Anders behind him in reflex as they passed. He was shaking, the urge to turn tail back to their tent was strong. But feeding his Mage was a priority, and he wouldn’t shirk his duty. So he pressed onwards.

          Just inside the tent he could see Isabela sitting at a bench with Sebastian and Varric, talking animatedly about something. He stood quietly, unwilling to interrupt and waited for them to finish.  They hadn’t long to wait, the Dwarf had noticed them almost immediately and stood quickly, edging closer with a cautious look upon his face.

          “You’re free to join us if you’d like,” He said, voice level and kind. It looked as if he’d like nothing more than to move closer and either embrace him or shake his hand. Neither of which appealed at all to Fenris.

          Looking back at Anders and pulling him slightly closer, briefly looking around before turning back to Varric.

          “I was wondering if it would be possible to acquire some stew or broth. For Anders. His throat…” The feeling of speaking freely was unnerving, panic blooming in his belly as the words tumbled from his lips. Shifting nervously and moving a half step in front of Anders as he waited for a response.

          “Some broth for Blondie? I’m pretty sure we can do that, I’ll go ask about that ok? You gonna stay here or head back to your tent?” Again the words were gentle, spoken softly with that hesitating quality that irked him. He understood why it was so, but nevertheless it was grating.

          “I…” He faltered, looking up and wavering with an answer. They were safe here, they were among friends. He shouldn’t be so skittish, these people were safe. Unseeing eyes roved the tent and the faces within and he shrugged unhelpfully, unable to make up his mind on whether to stay or flee.

          “That’s fine, it’s ok. I’ll check here first, and if you’ve gone back I’ll let Isabela bring it to you.”

          He nodded and Varric smiled brightly at him before turning and hustling off. Anders shifted behind him and it drew his attention, cloudy eyes stared unseeingly at him and he recoiled. He turned to Isabela and opened his mouth, feeling the Mage press against his back and pressing his forehead between his shoulder blades. Gritting his teeth at the pressure on the sore area he barely kept from hissing in pain.

          “I think we’d better retire again, Anders’ is still feeling poorly. I’d appreciate it if you could bring up the broth, something I think he’s going to need for a while yet. Until his throat heals somewhat, at least.” Words quiet he bowed his head, spine curving as he spoke. Feet moving backwards as he tried to make his escape, eyes glancing upwards to meet Isabela’s briefly.

          The Pirate had a decidedly blank look on her face as she met his eyes, nodding quickly to him before Fenris finally turned and walked away. Anders stumbling as his feet ate up the ground, nerves quickening his step. Dodging around tents and people until at last they were back at their tent. He shuffled Anders forward, following behind and falling into their bedrolls.

          Tremors shook him as he held his insensate Mage, rocking as he struggled to breathe. Feeling Anders latch onto the fabric at his neck, suckling furiously. His arms wrapped tightly around the trim waist, pushing his face into tangled auburn hair. Back and forth, almost as fast as his heart was beating. A choking cry of anguish and anger, fear and helplessness bubbling in his throat. Fingers cinching tightly on the fabric of Anders’ tunic as he struggled to breathe. Pitiful hiccupped mewling reaching his ear, listening to Anders mirror him. The sounds heartbreaking as the Mage cried into his neck, fingers fluttering over his arms, neck, shoulders, spastically clamping as they moved over him.

          That more than anything allowed Fenris to brook his emotional upheaval. Shoring up the walls against the tumultuous rampage, breathing deeply of Anders’ scent and crooning softly as he regained his breath. Loosening his fingers until he could caress the man’s back soothingly, feeling the thundering of his heart beat and trying to slow it. Pushing his nose into the hair at Anders’ temple and pressing soft kisses to his head. Enveloping himself in the feel, the smell and the presence of his Mage.

 

***

 

          Sebastian eyed Isabela once Fenris had scurried away, half dragging the Apostate behind him. The blankness melting away as they moved out of sight, pity, sadness, anger. A swirling tumult of emotions far too plentiful for him to name, which echoed in his own feelings.

          Watching Fenris as he all but bowed to them, fear all too clear in his demeanor. The protective stance he’d taken in front of the Mage, and the halting way he’d spoken. He foolishly thought he’d had some idea of what Fenris had endured, only to realize that the full scope had been so much greater.

          Isabela had watched him patiently, mahogany eyes glistening as she waited for him to speak. He struggled to give voice to what he was feeling, his own words threatening to choke him as he tried to utter them.

          “They…he…”

          A small smile graced full lips as continued to sit silently, allowing him time to gather his thoughts.

          “I cannot fathom the depth of what they endured,” He started, slowly, face contorting with horror. “To reduce them to what I just saw.”

          He stared at her, and she, him. She broke first, sighing deeply and moving to stand. Long legs stretching as she strode from one side to the other, arms crossed over her chest as she paced.

          “From what little Fenris shared with us over the years, and what I’ve been able to piece together just from watching his mannerisms, I know that these weeks have been nothing short of a nightmare. Even knowing that, when I first found them…” Her hands clenched on her arms as she spoke, face stormy and pace fast as she stalked from side to side.

          Sebastian watched her carefully, mouth clamped shut as he listened to her talk.

          “Fenris was the first I saw, he must’ve heard me coming and tackled me. He didn’t seem to recognize me, just sat on my chest, fingers wrapped around my throat. That Lyrium of his blazing as he tried to decide to kill me or not.” A hand reached to rub at her face, fingers dragging down her skin as she finally stopped pacing and turned to face him.

          “He was terrified. I know fear, I’ve seen it on one too many faces not to recognize it. But this…this far outstripped anything I have ever seen. He was barely in control, just a wild animal that attacked when threatened. It took me forever to calm him down and have him show me where Anders was. I wasn’t allowed to touch either of them after that, not unless they made first contact.”

          Her gaze turned to the open flaps, a distance in her gaze as she continued to speak, as if she were reliving the memories. He hardly dared breathe, lest he disrupt her story.

          “Anders doesn’t speak, can’t or won’t I’m unsure. Though based on the bruising round his neck I’d wager he’s injured beyond simple healing right now. So Fenris speaks in his stead, it’s like he knows what Anders needs even without words. It’s odd to watch, but it seems to provide each of them comfort of some kind.”

          Black curls swung wildly before coming to rest back on her shoulders as she whirled to face him, expression unreadable. Sebastian broke the gaze and looked down to the table, his clasped hands resting on the rough wood.

          “As much as I had hoped that we would retrieve them unscathed, a foolish thought, I was unable to conceive just how much damage had been done.”

          Blue eyes met brown as Sebastian looked at her once more, lip caught between sharps teeth as he reeled with the information that was trying to compute in his mind.

          “I realize that we all held the hope that we’d find them before anything could be done. We held out that hope for the entirety of our journey, hope that translated into feverish energy as we worked to track them down. It’s not foolish, Isabela, to pray for mercy, to hope. There’s a certain amount of guilt we all carry, seen or unseen,” His thoughts turned to Hawke, and the visible burden that seemed to weigh the man down. The abject misery that had haunted his features the past weeks, the fury and despair that had intermingled and polluted his voice. It had become ever more present, the longer they searched. Culminating into a pressure point that had shattered when Fenris had leveled his sword at Garrett.

          “These feelings we have, even amidst the relief and joy at having them returned to us…It’s a slippery slope, and we must be mindful lest we come tumbling down. There’s a very long road of recovery ahead of us, and we must help each other. All of us, or we’ll be lost in the shadows of our guilt, the anger and sadness that we try to push aside.”

          A clearing of a throat drew him up short, both of them jumping at the sound. Varric stood in the entrance, a steaming pot held between his hands.

          “I take it Broody and Blondie went back to their tent?” He said, eyebrow cocking at Sebastian before turning to Isabela.

          She nodded and reached out her hands for the cauldron, hefting the weight and departing with barely a glance back. Sebastian stayed where he was and waited for the Dwarf to cross the threshold and take a seat across from him.

          “That was some speech there, Brother. Care to enlighten me?” The words were teasing and playful, but the tone was off. As if Varric couldn’t manage to convey his attempted lightheartedness fully.

          “I was merely stating my views on today’s events.” Sebastian said, gloved finger running along a knot in the wood. He kept his eyes down, focusing on the pattern in the wood.

          “So I heard. I’m more interested in this slippery slope business,” Varric leant forward, hands bracing on the table as he moved in close.

          Sebastian sighed and raised a hand to brace his face on, closing his eyes and waiting for the Dwarf to continue, fingers tapping his cheeks lightly in impatience.

          “You and I both saw the look on Hawke’s face this afternoon. We’ve been watching him since Kirkwall, and I have to tell you, I’m not liking what I’m seeing. So if you have any insights, any Maker damned advice to stop this from turning into an all-out shit storm, then get talking.” Voice uncommonly hard, firm and demanding. It was enough to startle Sebastian, eyes opening to find a face of determination glaring at him.

          “I…”

          “Sebastian,” Varric sighed, fingers rubbing hard at tired eyes. “This is gonna be tough enough as it is, if there’s anything we can do to curb whatever fallout it’s going to cause from full on disaster, then help me out here. Hawke’s falling off the rails as it is, hell I had to send Daisy with knockout juice just so he wouldn’t go on a rampage through camp trying to find them. He had that look in his eye, the kind you see when you corner a wild animal. Like it’d chew on anything and everything that got in its way regardless of consequences.”

          “What I said to Isabela was merely my way of trying to assuage the guilt she was obviously feeling. Varric, I’m not a Healer and I can only guess as to what anyone is feeling. I know what I, myself am trying to work through. But to hazard a guess without listening to them, especially if they refuse to talk…Is beyond my expertise.” Regret was heavy, words gentle as he tried to explain himself.

          “Anything you got for me, I’ll take. It’s all we’ve got right now outside of Daisy’s potions, and I have a feeling that’s not going to keep working. Come on, talk.”

          “Varric…all right, all right! Mind you, this is only speculation, you understand. It’s a trauma, one that’s suffered by those who are left behind. Which in this case pertains to all of us, not just Hawke. He’s exhibiting extreme signs of it, to be sure, but it seems to be manifesting in all of us. In different ways. Think about it Varric. We suffered a loss, our friends were taken from us, violently, suddenly. I don’t know about you, but Fenris came to me that morning. Asking for my aid with a job, I was busy, doing something. For the life of me I can’t remember what was so important, but I turned him down. And the next thing I hear, he’s been taken. The guilt I feel, the shame and anger that I feel is terrible. If I had been there, if I had helped, perhaps we would still be in Kirkwall. Drinking and playing a game of Wicked Grace. But because I refused to aid a friend, they suffered terribly. And if to compound it, I feel terrible that I feel terrible, because they must feel so much worse, and it’s my fault. What right do I have to hurt when I was not subjected to the mercies of a mad Magister?” Fingers slid into his chestnut hair, gripping tightly as he spoke. It was a circular argument that he’d been having with himself, a never ending cycle of pain and blame and fear and pain, again.

          A hand on his drew his attention and he looked up into Varric’s face, startled and sheepish with his tirade.

          “I think, maybe we’re all in the same boat on that one, Brother. He didn’t come to me directly, but I knew who he was waiting for, just the same as you did. And fuck, I should’ve had the Tavern watched, I shouldn’t have just allowed them to waltz in there and…” He heaved a weary sigh, a burble of laughter echoing wetly as he exhaled.

          “I see what you meant, which goes to my next point. Hawke. From what little snippets and pieces I managed to get out of him, he didn’t know at all. Which struck me as odd, I figured he’d be the first Fenris went to. Until I thought it through and realized that with everything going on in Kirkwall, perhaps Fenris didn’t have time, or something happened. In which case, if this is what we’re feeling, how much more guilt do you think this is laying on Hawke?”

          “Enough that perhaps, separating them would be a wiser plan?”

          A sharp glance had him raising his hands in defense, leaning away from the table quickly.

          “Hear me out!” At Varric’s rough nod, Sebastian continued, “Garrett for all his strength is hurting right now, same as all of us. I understand that, and I feel for him. He deserves to heal just the same as all of us. But we need to factor in Fenris and Anders too, they’re just as important, if not a wee bit more so. I propose we send Isabela and Merrill with them, on to Kirkwall. Let them settle in, reacquaint themselves without being the centre of our attentions. In the meantime, we’ll focus on Hawke. Maker willing, perhaps that’ll give us enough time to defuse him. Because I can almost guarantee you if we don’t get a handle on it now, this will only get worse. Much worse.”

          He dropped his hands back to the table and watched Varric take in the information, grimace marring his face as he worked through details.

          “I don’t like it, but I agree. Let them sleep tonight, tomorrow we’ll have Rivaini and Daisy smuggle them out. Meantime, better pray to the Maker that Daisy’s knockout juice keeps him out.” Varric said, moving to stand and exit the tent, his shoulders hunched and face drawn in thought as he left.

          Sebastian sighed, and dropped his head into his arms. Maker willing, they’d manage to set this to rights. Maker willing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue heavy af....
> 
> I had to do a looot of research on Survivor's Guilt, which is what I think most of the Misfits would be left with.
> 
>  
> 
> Fleshing out Isabela, Sebastian and Varric...Aveline and Merrill will come later.
> 
>  
> 
> As for Hawke. I feel for him, he made a terrible mistake and now he's gonna have to learn to live with it.
> 
>  
> 
> Finally I was able to put down what it is that Anders is drinking. 
> 
> I went through so many codexes looking for herbs and ingredients till I found what I needed.  
> It's big, it's nasty and it's not going to go away anytime soon.
> 
> Good lord this felt like a beast of a chapter to write....Maker...


	24. Deceit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the third and final time...hopefully

****

          Fenris woke to the sounds of feet crunching through snow, shivering in the chill air as he listened. Anders was pulled in tight to his side, face pressed in the expanse of his neck. His ears twitched as a voice called, muffled through the fabric of the tent.

          “Fenris?” A familiar voice rang out.

          He sat up, pulling his Mage with him as he went, the man startling as the sharp motion woke him. He quietly shushed Anders, stroking his hair softly before turning to reply.

          “Isabela?” His voice was rough, croaky from sleep. Pulling himself from Anders’ grip he moved to the tent flap and peered outside.

          She was standing just outside, dressed in more clothes that he’d ever seen. Actual trousers and a long thick coat that swept her feet. Smirking at his confusion she beckoned him closer, slipping from the tent cautiously, glancing back at Anders with a reassuring look before moving closer to her.

          “Plans have changed. You both and I will be returning to Kirkwall today. The others are still waiting for the outlying parties to arrive, they’ll join us later.” Her smile was bright but didn’t reach her eyes. She was lying. He studied her intently for a moment, trying to figure out what it was she was hiding.

          He jumped when a body pressed up against his back, and turned slightly to see Anders curling up to him. Finding his fingers he pulled him around to the front, wrapping his arms around him.

          A second sound of feet caught his attention and he looked up to see Merrill, similarly dressed, headed towards them. She waved enthusiastically and hurried the rest of the way to them.

          “Oh good, you’ve got them up! Hello Fenris, hello Anders!”

          He winced as her bubbly voice washed over them, Anders pushing back against him as she drew nearer. A sigh of relief escaping them both when Isabela caught her wrist and drew her a few steps further away.

        “Now, now Kitten. They’ve just gotten up, give them a minute. Everything is ready?”

          A quick nod that had Isabela smiling before turning to them again.

          “Dress as warmly as you can, we’ll be traveling in the wagon. Pack only your essentials, everything else will follow you when the main camp moves.”

          She stopped talking to look around, eyes watching each person in the vicinity before turning back to them.

          “Stay here, we’ll pick you up on the way out. Okay?”

          A moment more of watching her carefully before he nodded.

          “We’ll be ready to move.” He said, stepping back from them and dragging Anders along into the tent.

         Once inside he began compiling clothing. Sharing the coats and cloaks between them. The Mage helped as he could, lifting his arms and helping button up articles of clothing. Fenris bustled around, retrieving the sword and armor pieces before strapping them on hurriedly, watching Anders as he did so. The Mage was fumbling with his satchel, the tinkling of vials clicking together loud in the silence of the tent.

          “Anders?” He waited till the man looked at him.

“Are those all necessary?” He hedged gently, watching as the Healer tensed.

          A sharp, resolute nod was his answer and he motioned for him to continue, standing to secure the sword to his hip.

          He waited patiently as Anders finished slinging the pack onto his back and reaching for the Elf’s hand and re-exiting the tent.

          Merrill was waiting for them, a full grin stretched across her face.

          “All packed up? Come on then, Izzy’s wanting to get a move on. Breakfast’ll be on the go, I’m afraid.”

          She bounced along the path, leading them away from the large cluster of tents and towards the outskirts. The camp was just beginning to wake, bodies emerging from tents and starting the day’s chores.

          If anything it seemed to spur Merrill on faster, flitting through the camp until finally they reached the last row. Isabella was leaning back against the high walls of the wagon talking to Varric. When they came into view the conversation came to an abrupt standstill.

          Fenris watched curiously as Varric took his leave, smiling at them with a jaunty wave before departing.

          “Well, it looks like we’re good to go. Our security will follow us out. Fenris, Anders you can ride in the back, Merrill you’re up front with me. We’ve got a two week ride to Kirkwall, might as well get started.” Her mouth thinned as she finished speaking waving them forward and calling out to the unit waiting beyond the wagon.

          Fenris lowered the back and helped Anders clamber in before hoisting himself in after him. They made their way to the front and began settling in, arranging blankets and getting comfortable. Fenris unstrapped his armor and secured it under one of the benches, making sure to keep the sword within reach before following Anders down into the nest of blankets. Isabela popped her head over the edge and Fenris bobbed his at her in affirmation. She closed the back with a bang and disappeared.

          A few moments later Fenris felt the wagon shudder and begin to move. Clutching his Mage close, swaddled in blankets against the bitter chill he watched as they drew away from the camp. Thoughts turning towards Kirkwall, towards home.

          How would it feel to be back in the City he called home? Was he supposed to pretend like this had never happened, or would he be reminded of it at every turn?

          Fear unspooled right along with his nerves as his thoughts raced through his mind. A fine tremor shook his limbs as he fought to breathe. Such silly questions, and yet here he was falling to pieces over it. A heavy weight settled in his belly, leaden cramping pain that flared through him and set his heart palpitating in his chest.

          His throat clicking uncomfortably as he swallowed hard, mouth dry. Gagging quietly as his stomach clenched. Anders looked up sharply at the sound, abandoning rooting around for a comfortable position. Glassy eyes watched him carefully, head cocked as he listened to the harsh breaths he was gulping. Fingers curled in the Elf’s coat, his face paling further as he registered the panic displayed clearly on Fenris’ face. It triggered an acrid fear in him, seeing him so overwrought with toxic emotions. This Elf who time after time had consoled him, fought for him, cared for him. Seeing him broken down terrified him. Anders’ breathing strained as he scrambled ungainly into Fenris’ lap, panting in fear. The whistling heave of breath disturbing his damaged vocal chords, creating a dissonant keening.

          The piteous sound raised the hairs on his nape. Still frozen in his terror as his Mage clambered over him. His head hurt from lack of oxygen, the clamor to breathe ringing through every thought. Eyes unseeing as he warred with his panic, the terror, the helplessness. He felt ice cold, but he could feel sweat blooming over his body, soaking his tunic and clamming up his hands.

          Waves of emotion buffeted him as he tried to make heads or tails of how to alleviate it.  His mouth stretched in a silent scream of desperation as he felt the lack of air take hold, sight going dim as he struggled. The Healer was patting helplessly at him, the inhuman sound tinny and distant to his ears.

          It seemed like a blink of an eye, one minute frozen solid staring at Anders as he beat against his chest, the next he was staring at the canvas cover of the wagon’s top. A deep unsteady breath filled his burning lungs and he coughed as it agitated his throat. His eyes watered as he sucked in air, muscles jumping in his limbs as he settled back into his own skin.

          The ruddy, tear streaked face of Anders moved into view. His mouth chattering piteous sounds that emanated from raw, split lips. As if he’d chewed them to shreds in his distress. Shaking fingers braced his face as wide fearful eyes took him in.

          He gathered his strength to reach up to his Mage, thumbs swiping away a fresh wave of tears. Moving slowly he gripped the man’s coat collar and tugged weakly.

          Ignoring the twinges of pain that thudded dully as the man’s weight settled on his chest, he clutched Anders to him. A choking cry clawing its way from his throat as the remembered panic rolled through him. Anders moved them slightly and pulled Fenris into his arms, brushing at his hair and nuzzling into his throat. Soft shushing sounds intermingling with Fenris’ sobbing.

Once started it continued for what felt like hours, scouring him out and leaving him drained. Hiccoughing as he lay in the Mage’s arms he buried his face in the multitude of coats, Anders was wrapped in. Sleep crept over him steadily and he surrendered to it willingly.

         

***

          It felt a little like he was betraying Hawke, as he spoke to Isabela. Cementing the plan to spirit Fenris and Anders back to Kirkwall. It was not a ploy they would be able to use for long. Hawke would soon notice Isabela’s disappearance if not Merrill’s as well. But they had to try, for as long as they could, to afford them the largest lead possible.

          Shoulders hunched against the wind as he stalked through the camp, waving hellos and smiling grimly. Sebastian was waiting for him in the main pavilion, white armor glinting brightly in the weak winter sun. When he saw Varric he moved forward with a questioning look on his face.

          “Are they gone?” Strained words asked lowly.

          He nodded briskly and moved into the tent, grabbing a roll from the spread on a nearby table and taking a bite.

          The Brother sighed and moved to the map strewn table, bracing his hands on the edge and staring at the piles of parchment.

          “Cheer up, step one went off without a hitch. Daisy’s potion came through, and when he wakes in few hours he’ll be none the wiser.” Varric said with a shrug.

          “Aye, it did. But now we have to look Hawke in the eye and lie.”

          The Dwarf gave him a dry look before turning back to his roll.

          “This was your idea, don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts.”

          Sebastian shot him a look before lowering his eyes back to the maps.

          “Need I remind you, this ‘Plan of Mine’ was merely a suggestion? And nowhere did I mention being willfully deceitful.” The words were strained, stretched strangely as his brogue thickened with stress.

          Varric glared at the table, fingers digging into the soft edges of the bread as he took in what Sebastian was saying.

          “What’s done is done. We did what he thought was best for everyone. Only thing left to do is move forward.”

          He looked up to Sebastian who nodded slowly and straightened.

          “Fine, what’s our next move then?”

Varric smiled grimly, “We try and contain Garrett until they’re a good distance away. Or until he figures it out, whichever comes first.”

          “Fantastic.”

 

***

 

          Merrill shivered against the howling wind, eyes watering as they moved down the path. Isabela was pushing the team hard, trying to eat up as much distance before nightfall. Face set in grim determination as she wielded the reigns.

          Trees flew past on either side and she clutched tightly on the bench. Thankful for the thick woolen blankets she shuffled down further into them until only her eyes were visible.

          “If it gets to be too much, let me know and we can get you into the back, Kitten.” Isabela’s voice was loud to compete with the blustering wind.

          “I’m okay, Izzy. It’s like being on an Aravel, justfaster. We don’t push the Halla this fast, they take us where they will in their own time.” She lowered the blanket briefly to smile at her companion.

          Isabela shot her a half smirk before turning back to the horses.

          “We’ve a timeline to keep, Kitten. Every minute counts. Precious cargo needs to be delivered as soon as possible, as per Varric’s orders.” Her mouth turned down in a frown, as if the words were distasteful.

          Merrill eyed her curiously, large eyes taking in the rigid posture and the frown that furrowed her dark brows. There had been such a rush to leave, whispered conversations and skulking about the camp as they hurried to ready for the return to Kirkwall. Never once had Hawke been brought up, and that was worrying.

          “Isabela…” She hedged, drawing out the name slowly, “Hawke, doesn’t know we’ve left does he?”

          “No, he doesn’t.” Her hands gripped tighter on the reigns, leaning forward against the wind as she spurred the horses on. Reigns snapping loudly as she flourished them.

          “And if Varric can manage it, he won’t, until we’re nearly there. It’s better this way, trust me Merrill. Staying wouldn’t do Fenris, Anders or Hawke any good. It was an explosion waiting to go off.”

          She balked at that, unable to reconcile the harsh words with Hawke’s benign personality. True he was hurting right now, they all were, but she liked to believe that he had the best of intentions.

          “We didn’t even give them a chance though! After all this time looking for them, and we’ve just stolen them again. How is that supposed help?”

          Isabela looked at her again, face stony as she listened to Merrill. A flash of regret passing through her features before settling again.

          “We aren’t doing this to hurt anyone, or to punish Hawke. He’s hurting, Merrill. We all are, but think about how close he was to them. Seeing them like this is devastating, understandably so, but they don’t need that from him or any of us. Varric and Sebastian are staying behind to hopefully get him in the mind frame that will be beneficial to Fenris and Anders, they don’t need to be reminded of how painful it was for us to lose them. You and I are to help them get settled in a familiar place, and back into a routine.” She said, half pleadingly as she turned back to guiding the team.

          Merrill frowned contemplatively, burrowing back into the blankets. Unease filling her as she watched their progress.

 

***

 

          The sound of sleep heavy breathing echoed throughout the wagon, nestled in the warmth of blankets and tangled limbs. Anders opened his eyes slowly, looking to Fenris carefully. The Elf’s face was lax with sleep, mouth puffing out soft breaths against his cheek. He sat slowly, carefully disentangling himself from the confines of the embrace. Reaching for his satchel he quietly dug through the mass of vials tumbling indelicately in the depths. He sighed in relief as he found the Animi Imperio and plucked it from the mess. Quickly uncorking it he took hasty drafts, grimacing at the foul taste before allowing more to flood over his tongue and down his throat.

          He counted the seconds, hands curling tightly over the crystal flask as he waited.

          _One…_

_Two…_

_Three…_

          Fenris shifted against his back and he froze, hardly daring to breathe until he heard the snuffling sigh as the Elf settled.

          _Four…_

_Five…_

_Six…_

          Eyeing the empty vessel he looked to the open end and hurled it as hard as he could, disposing of the evidence in the only way he could think of.

          _Seven…_

_Eight…_

_Nine…_

          His eyes slammed shut as the pain that had been throbbing dully in his throat clamored for attention amidst the swirling thoughts darting across his mind. Hands fell to the scratchy material of the blankets covering his knees, clenching hard as he tried to keep rigid control over his breathing.

          _Ten…_

          Relief, sweet blessed relief. The thick smoky tendrils off insensate calm permeated his mind. Swarming the dizzying wave of memories and serrated thoughts, easing the rising pain in his body as it ate away at his consciousness. His body relaxing as it took hold, muscles going limp and loose. A deep fathomless fog robbing him of thought and bringing a giddy smile to his lips.

          Hands reached up and pulled him back down against a strong chest and he went willingly, humming as arms wound around his middle and pulled him in close. Face turning to nestle in the crook of Fenris’ neck, mouth searching for the loose fabric of his tunic. Murring lowly as he suckled it, replete in the familiar scent, the warmth and presence that represented security.

          He could feel the Elf kissing at his forehead, chuckling as he drew more of the cloth in to taste. Lost in the fog, free from thoughts, free from pain. His eyes closed and he allowed himself to drift.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot shorter unfortunately, but I did what I could.
> 
> Third time's the charm right?
> 
> Here's chapter 24 for the final time.
> 
> After a few emails and some helpful comments with much appreciated constructive criticism's, I managed to rework the scene in question.
> 
> Already working on the next portion...I hope to have it up tomorrow...


End file.
